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Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 
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https://archive.org/details/lifeofjohnboyleoOOroch 


LIFE 


OF 

JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY, 


JAMES  JEFFREY  ROCHE. 


TOGETHER  WITH  HIS 

COMPLETE  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES, 

EDITED  BY 

MRS.  JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


INTRODUCTION  BY  HIS  EMINENCE 

JAMES  CARDINAL  GIBBONS, 

ARCHBISHOP  OF  BALTIMORE. 


NEW  YORK 

THE  CASSELL  PUBLISHING  CO. 

31  East  17th  St.  (Union  Square) 


Copyright,  1891, 

BY 

MBS.  JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLYo 


All  rights  reserved. 


THE  MER8HON  COMPANY  PRESS, 
RAHWAT,  N.  3. 


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INTRODUCTION. 


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The  best  monument  to  a great  and  good  man  are  the 
works  with  which  his  hand  and  his  head  have  enriched  the 


world. 

More  fittingly  than  by  towering  shaft  of  granite  or  of 
marble  will  the  name  of  John  Boyle  O’Reilly  be  immortal- 
ized by  this  collection  of  his  writings.  On  this,  his  ceno- 
taph, aere  perennius,  I dutifully,  though  sorrowfully,  lay 
this  wreath  of  admiration  for  the  genius — of  love  for  the 
man. 

Few  men  have  felt  so  powerfully  the  divinus  afflatus 
of  Poesy ; few  natures  have  been  so  fitted  to  give  it  worthy 
response.  As  strong  as  it  was  delicate  and  tender,  as  sym- 
pathetic and  tearful  as  it  was  bold,  his  soul  was  a harp  of 
truest  tone,  which  felt  the  touch  of  the  ideal  everywhere, 
and  spontaneously  breathed  responsive  music,  joyous  or 
mournful,  vehement  or  soft.  Such  a nature  needed  an 
environment  of  romance,  and  romantic  indeed  was  his 
career  throughout.  In  boyhood  his  imagination  feasts  on 
the  weird  songs  and  legends  of  the  Celt ; in  youth  his 
heart  agonizes  over  that  saddest  and  strangest  romance  in 
all  history, — the  wrongs  and  woes  of  his  mother-land,  that 
Niobe  of  the  nations ; in  manhood,  because  he  dared  to 
wish  her  free,  he  finds  himself  a doomed  felon,  an  exiled 
convict  in  what  he  calls  himself  “ the  nether  world  ” ; then, 
bursting  his  prison  bars,  a hunted  fugitive,  reaching  the 
haven  of  this  land  of  liberty  penniless  and  unknown,  but 
rising  by  the  sheer  force  of  his  genius  and  his  worth,  till 
the  best  and  the  noblest  in  our  country  vie  in  doing  honor 
to  his  name. 

With  surroundings  and  a career  like  these,  a man  of  his 
make  could  not  but  be  a poet,  and  a poet  he  became  of 
truest  mould  ; wooed  to  the  summits  of  Parnassus  by  his 
love  of  the  beautiful,  his  fiery  spirit  was  calmed  on  its  stilly 
heights,  and  grew  into  that  poise  and  restfulness  and  self- 


V 


VI 


INTRODUCTION. 


control,  without  which  poetry  would  lack  dignity  and 
grace.  No  writer  understood  better  than  he  that  the  face 
and  form  of  Poesy  to  be  beautiful  must  be  tranquil,  that 
violent  movements  rob  her  of  her  charm — that  even  in  the 
tempest  of  her  love  or  wrath  her  mien  must  breathe  the 
comeliness  and  harmony  of  the  Divine. 

This  lesson  of  the  Muses  gave  grace  and  charm  to  more 
than  his  poetry,  it  gradually  pervaded  all  the  movement  of 
his  life.  Seldom  did  he  lose  sight  of  what  he  has  himself 
so  beautifully  expressed : 

Nature’s  gospel  never  changes, 

Every  sudden  force  deranges, 

Blind  endeavor  is  not  wise. 

Many  a time  was  he  subjected  to  trials  calling  for  super- 
human self-control,  and  seldom  was  he  found  wanting 
under  the  test.  Instances  without  number  are  related  of 
his  generous  magnanimity  toward  those  who  deserved  it 
least,  of  his  patienee  under  insult  and  injustice,  of  his 
quickness  to  atone  for  any  momentary,  unguarded  flash. 
There  was  a rhythm  and  a harmony  in  all  his  life  like  to 
that  of  his  thoughts  and  of  his  style. 

But  in  all  this  there  was  more  than  nature.  The  Divine 
Faith,  implanted  in  his  soul  in  childhood,  flourished  there 
undyingly,  pervaded  his  whole  being  with  its  blessed  influ- 
ences, furnished  his  noblest  ideals  of  thought  and  conduct. 
Even  when  not  explicitly  adverted  to,  Faith’s  sweet  and 
holy  inspirations  were  there  to  shape  his  thought  and  direct 
his  life.  They  had  made  his  mind  their  sanctuary  before 
its  work  began,  and  all  its  imagery  during  life  instinctively 
bore  the  impress  of  their  presence. 

Thus  was  he  fitted  to  fulfill  worthily  the  vocation  of  a 
poet.  For  it  is  not  aimlessly  that  Divine  Providence 
endows  a human  being  with  qualities  so  exceptional  and 
exalted. 

The  poet  is  one  endowed  with  ken  so  piercing  as  through 
the  veil  of  sense  to  gaze  upon  the  world  of  the  ideal,  and 
through  all  ideals  to  penetrate  to  the  archetypal  ideal  of 
all  things  ; — endowed  with  heart  so  sensitive  as  to  thrill  with 
unwonted  tlirobbings  at  this  vision  of  the  true,  the  beauti- 
ful, and  the  good  endowed  with  speech  so  subtle  that  it 
can  fit  itself  to  thoughts  and  emotions  like  these,  so  rhyth- 
mical and  sweet  that,  falling  on  ears  dulled  by  the  hard 
din  of  life,  it  may  charm  them,  and  lift  up  earthly  minds 
and  hearts  to  thought  and  love  of  better  things.  The  true 


INTRODUCTION. 


Vll 


poet  realizes  what  O’Reilly  sung  in  one  of  his  latest  and 
best  productions : 

Those  who  sail  from  land  afar, 

Leap  from  mountain-top  to  star  ; 

Higher  still,  from  star  to  God, 

Have  the  Spirit-Pilots  trod, 

Setting  lights  for  mind  and  soul, 

That  the  ships  may  reach  their  goal. 

The  vocation  of  the  poet  is  close  akin  to  that  of  the 
priest,  and  it  is  not  to  be  wondered  at  that  during  most  of 
his  life  our  poet’.s  nearest  and  dearest  friends  were  clergy- 
men. 

In  his  career  as  a journalist,  the  magnanimity  and  self- 
control  thus  variously  impressed  upon  him  and  infused 
into  him  were  especially  manifested.  Constantly  obliged 
to  deal  with  burning  questions,  he  usually  handled  them 
wdth  a conservative  prudence  scarcely  to  be  expected  in 
one  so  vehement  by  nature. 

Accustomed  by  long  experience  to  have  his  most  cher- 
ished convictions  resisted  and  assailed,  he  met  all  oppo- 
nents with  a chivalrous  courtesy,  as  well  as  with  a daunt- 
less courage,  that  instantly  won  respect,  and  often  ended 
by  winning  them  over  to  his  side. 

No  wonder,  then,  that  he,  far  beyond  the  bulk  of  men, 
verified  his  own  touching  lines  : 

The  work  men  do  is  not  their  test  alone, 

The  love  they  win  is  far  the  better  chart. 

Who  can  recall  an  outburst  of  grief  so  universal  and  so 
genuine  as  that  evoked  by  his  all  too  early  and  sudden 
death  ? At  the  sad  news  numberless  hearts  in  all  the  lands 
which  speak  our  English  tongue  stood  still  as  in  anguish 
for  the  loss  of  a brother  or  a friend.  In  accents  trembling 
with  the  eloquence  of  emotion,  countless  tongues  in  our 
own  and  in  other  climes  have  paid  unwonted  tribute  to  his 
worth  ; great  thinkers  and  writers  have  lauded  his  genius ; 
the  lowly  and  unlettered  are  mourning  him  who  was  ever 
humanity’s  friend. 

The  country  of  his  adoption  vies  with  the  land  of  his 
birth  in  testifying  to  the  uprightness  of  his  life,  the  useful- 
ness of  his  career  and  his  example,  the  gentleness  of  his 
character,  the  nobleness  of  his  soul.  The  bitterest  preju- 
dices of  race  and  of  creed  seem  to  have  been  utterly  con- 
quered by  the  masterful  goodness  of  his  heart  and  the 


INTRODUCTION. 


Vlll 


winning  sweetness  of  his  tongue,  and  to  have  turned  into 
all  the  greater  admiration  for  the  man. 

With  all  these  voices  I blend  my  own,  and  in  their 
name  I say  that  the  world  is  brighter  for  having  possessed 
him,  and  mankind  will  be  the  better  for  this  treasury  of 
pure  and  generous  and  noble  thoughts  which  he  has  left  us 
in  his  works. 


PREFACE. 


HE  following  pages  have  been  written  in  the  scant 


leisure  of  a busy  life,  made  doubly  so  by  the  loss  which 
called  them  forth.  They  make  no  pretension  to  being  a 
critical  study  of  their  subject  or  a minute  history  of  his 
life.  I have  aimed  to  present,  concisely  and  truthfully, 
the  leading  events  in  a career  as  full  of  dramatic  incident 
and  striking  change  as  the  pages  of  a romance  ; letting  the 
story  tell  itself,  wherever  it  has  been  possible,  in  the  words 
of  its  illustrious  subject. 

Having  the  advantages  of  access  to  his  printed  and 
private  papers,  as  well  as  of  a close  personal  friendship  of 
twenty  years,  I have  been  able,  I think,  to  draw  a faithful 
picture  of  John  Boyle  O’Reilly  as  he  was  in  public  and 
private.  The  picture  has  not  been  overcolored  by  the 
hand  of  friendship.  If  there  appear  to  be  more  of  eulogy 
than  of  criticism  in  the  work,  the  fact  is  not  to  be 
wondered  at.  It  would  be  impossible  for  anybody  who 
knew  John  Boyle  O’Reilly  intimately  to  think  or  write 
of  him  in  any  other  strain. 

His  public  life  and  literary  labors  will  be  judged  by  pos- 
terity on  their  merits.  I believe  that  the  judgment  will  be 
even  more  favorable  than  that  passed  by  his  contem- 
poraries. Of  his  personal  character  there  can  be  but  one 
judgment.  Those  nearest  him  are  best  able  to  testify  to 
its  unvarying  heroism,  tenderness,  and  beauty;  but  no 
earthly  chronicler  can  ever  tell  the  whole  story  of  his 
kindly  thoughts  and  words  and  deeds.  A few  of  them  are 
here  recorded ; the  greater  number  are  written  on  the 
hearts  of  the  thousands  whose  lives  he  brightened  and 
blessed ; the  whole  are  known  only  to  the  God  whose  mercy 
gave  such  a life  to  the  world — whose  inscrutable  wisdom 
recalled  the  gift  so  soon. 


James  Jeffrey  Roche. 


ix 


CONTENTS. 


TA«E 

INTRODUCTION  BY  CARDINAL  GIBBONS,  . v 

PREFACE, ix 


CHAPTER  I. 

Birthplace — Childhood  and  Youth — Early  Apprenticeship-Sojourn 
in  England— Enlists  in  “ The  Prince  of  Wales’  Own  ” — Conspiracy,  Detec- 
tion, and  Arrest — “ The  Old  School  Clock,” 1 

CHAPTER  II. 

Trial  by  Court-martial — A Prisoner’s  Rights  before  a British  Military 
Tribunal — The  Stories  of  Two  Informers— Found  Guilty  and  Sentenced  to 
Death— Commutation  of  Sentence — Mountjoy  Prison— How  O’Reilly  Re- 
paid a Traitor, 22 

CHAPTER  III. 

Solitary  Confinement — An  Autobiographical  Sketch — Pentonville,  Mill- 
bank,  Chatham,  Dartmoor — Three  Bold  Attempts  to  Escape — Realities  of 
Prison  Life— The  Convict  Ship  Hougoumont — The  Exiles  and  their  Paper, 

The  Wild  Goose,  48 


CHAPTER  IY. 

Prison  Life  in  Australia— O’Reilly  Transferred  from  Fremantle  to  Bun- 
bury — Cruel  Punishment  for  a Technical  Offense — Daring  Plan  to  Es- 
cape— Free  at  Last  Under  the  American  Flag, 69 

CHAPTER  Y. 

Narrow  Escape  from  a “ Bad  ” Whale— He  Feigns  Suicide  in  Order 
to  Avoid  Recapture  at  Roderique — Transferred  to  the  Sapphire  off  Cape  of 
Good  Hope — Arrival  at  Liverpool — Takes  Passage  for  America — Lands  at 
Philadelphia,  . 84 


CHAPTER  YI. 

Arrival  in  Boston — Untoward  Experience  in  a Steamship  Office — Pub- 
lic Lectures — His  Personal  A ppearance — Characteristic  Letters— Employed 
on  The  Pilot — At  the  Front  with  the  Fenians — The  Orange  Riots  in  New 
York— O’Reilly  Sharply  Condemns  the  Rioters— A Notable  Editorial,  . 101 

xi 


xii 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 


CHAPTER  VII. 

Civilian  Prisoners  in  Australia  Set  Free — The  Story  of  Thomas  Has- 
sett — O’Reilly’s  Narrative  Poems — His  Love  of  Country  and  Denunciation 
of  Sham  Patriots — Death  of  His  Father— Speech  for  the  Press— His  Mar- 
riage, and  Home  Life — Pilot  Burned  Out  in  the  Great  Boston  Fire — The 
Papyrus  Club  Founded, • 122 

CHAPTER  VIII. 

His  Public  Life — Editorial  Condemnation  of  Bigotry — He  Speaks  for 
the  Indian  and  the  Negro — “ Songs  of  the  Southern  Seas  ” — Death  of  Cap- 
tain Gifford — Poem  on  the  Death  of  John  Mitchell— Controversy  with  Dr. 
Brownson — His  Poem  for  the  O’Connell  Centenary— O’Reilly  Becomes 
Part  Owner  of  the  Pilot, 140 

CHAPTER  IX. 

The  Cruise  of  the  Gatalpa — The  English  Government  Rejects  the  Peti- 
tion of  One  Hundred  and  Forty  Members  of  Parliament  for  the  Pardon  of 
the  Soldier  Convicts — John  Devoy  and  John  Breslin  Plan  their  Rescue — 
Good  Work  of  the  Clan-na-Gael — The  Dream  of  O’Reilly  and  Hathaway 
Fulfilled — The  Gatalpa  Defies  a British  Gunboat,  and  Bears  the  Men  in 
Safety  to  America, . 156 

CHAPTER  X. 

Death  of  John  O’Mahony — O’Reilly’s  Tribute  to  the  Head-Center— 
Prison  Sufferings  of  Corporal  Chambers — He  is  Set  Free  at  Last — O’Reilly 
on  Denis  Kearney — “ Moondyne,”  and  its  Critics — “ Number  406,”  . . 174 

CHAPTER  XI. 

Elected  President  of  the  Papyrus  Club,  and  also  of  the  Boston  Press 
Club — Interesting  Addresses  Delivered  Before  Both — Speech  at  the  Moore 
Centenary— Letter  to  the  Papyrus  Club— His  Home  at  Hull— Visit  of  Par- 
nell to  America — Founding  of  the  St.  Botolph  Club  and  the  “ Cribb 
dub  , Justin  McCarthy  Describes  the  Poet- Athlete— Russell  Sullivan’s 

“ Here  and  Hereafter,” 191 


CHAPTER  XII. 

His  Editorials  and  Public  Utterances— Honored  by  Dartmouth  College 
and  Notre  Dame— The  “Statues  in  the  Block Ireland’s  Opportu- 
nity Erin  ”— Tribute  to  Longfellow— His  Great  Poem,  “America,” 

Read  Before  the  Veterans— The  Phoenix  Park  Tragedy— Death  of  Fanny 
Parnell— “ To  Those  Who  Have  Not  Yet  Been  President,”  . . .204 

CHAPTER  XIII. 

His  Kindness  to  Young  Writers— Versatile  Editorial  Work— Irish  Na- 
tional Affairs — Speech  Before  the  League — His  Canoeing  Trips — A Papy- 
rus Reunion — Death  of  Wendell  Phillips,  and  O’Reilly’s  Poem — Presiden- 
tial Campaign  of  1884— “ The  King’s  Men”— Another  Papyrus  Poem- 
Touching  Letter  to  Father  Anderson, 223 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

CHAPTER  XIY. 

O’Reilly’s  Case  in  the  House  of  Commons— Refused  Permission  to  Visit 
Canada— Slander  About  “Breaking  Parole”  Refuted— A Characteristic 
Letter  in  1869— His  Editorial  “Is  it  Too  Late  ? ’’—Bayard,  Lowell,  and 
Phelps— Another  Speech  in  Faneuil  Hall— Hanging  of  Riel— “ In  Bo- 
hemia’’—Farewell  Poem  to  Underwood— “ Hanged,  Drawn,  and  Quar- 
tered,”   247 


CHAPTER  XV. 

Article  in  North  American  Review , “At  Last ’’—Address  Before  the 
Beacon  Club  of  Boston— Defense  of  the  Colored  Men— The  Five  Dollar  Par- 
liamentary Fund— “The  American  Citizen  Soldier The  Cry  of  the 
Dreamer  ” — Another  Characteristic  Letter, 272 

CHAPTER  XVI. 

“ Boyle’s  Log  ” — No  Memory  for  Dates — A Western  Publisher’s  Offer — 
Speech  of  Welcome  to  Justin  McCarthy — Poem  on  “Liberty”— He  De- 
fends his  Democracy — “The  Exile  of  the  Gael” — Speech  at  William 
O’Brien’s  Reception— Crispus  Attucks — The  British  in  Faneuil  Hall,  . 293 

CHAPTER  XVII. 

Public  Addresses — Author’s  Reading— The  Irish  Flag  in  New  York — 
“Athletics  and  Manly  Sport”  Published— His  Cruise  in  the  Dismal 
Swamp— Interesting  Letters  to  E.  A.  Moseley — Speech  at  the  C.  T.  A.  U. 
Banquet — Bayard,  Chamberlain,  and  Sackville-West — Presidential  Elec- 
tion— Poem  on  Crispus  Attucks — Death  of  Corporal  Chambers — Speech 
for  the  Heroes  of  Hull, 310 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

Another  Author’s  Reading,  “A  Philistine’s  Views”  on  Erotic  Litera- 
ture— Poem  on  the  Pilgrim  Fathers — Another,  “ From  the  Heights,”  for 
the  Catholic  University — Attacked  by  La  Grippe — Hopes  of  Another  Canoe 
Cruise — Brave  Words  for  the  Negro  and  the  Hebrew — “The  Useless 
Ones,”  his  Last  Poem — Lecturing  Tour  to  the  Pacific  Coast — Definition  of 
Democracy — Views  on  the  Catholic  Congress — His  Last  Canoeing  Paper 
and  Last  Editorials— A Characteristic  Deed  of  Kindness— His  Death,  . 333 

CHAPTER  XIX. 

Profound  Sorrow  of  the  Nation  and  of  the  Irish  People — Tributes  of 
Respect  to  his  Memory — “ A Loss  to  the  Country,  to  the  Church,  and  to 
Humanity  in  General  ” — Remarkable  Funeral  Honors — Resolutions  of  Na- 
tional and  Catholic  Societies — The  Papyrus  Club  and  the  Grand  Army  of 
the  Republic—"  The  Truest  of  all  the  True  is  Dead,”  ....  354 


XIV 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER  XX. 

The  City  of  Boston  Honors  his  Memory — Great  Citizens’  Meeting  in 
Tremont  Temple — Liberal  Subscriptions  to  a Public  Monument — Memorial 
Meetings  in  New  York  and  Elsewhere — The  “ Month’s  Mind  ” — Eloquent 
Sermon  of  Bishop  Healy— The  Poets  Grave  in  Holyhood,  , . . 366 

CHAPTER  XXI. 

Early  Traits  of  Character — Letters  from  Prison — His  Religious  Nature 
Exemplified— An  Ideal  Comrade — Love  of  Nature  and  of  Art — His  First 
Poem— His  Lavish  Charity  and  Kindness— A Child’s  Tribute — The  End,  . 375 


POEMS. 


PAGE. 

THE  WONDERFUL  COUNTRY, .395 

WHAT  IS  GOOD, 396 

THE  PILGRIM  FATHERS, 397 

FROM  THE  HEIGHTS, 405 

MAYFLOWER, . 407 

CRISPUS  ATTUCKS, 408 

THE  EXILE  OF  THE  GAEL,  . . . . * . . . .414 

THREE  GRAVES, 418 

AN  ART  MASTER, 420 

LIBERTY  LIGHTING  THE  WORLD, 420 

THE  PRESS  EVANGEL, 423 

THE  USELESS  ONES, 424 

LOVE  WAS  TRUE  TO  ME, 429 

TO  MY  LITTLE  BLANID, 430 

WRITTEN  UNDER  A PORTRAIT  OF  KEATS,  ....  430 

AN  OLD  PICTURE, 431 

AT  SCHOOL, 432 

UNDER  THE  SURFACE, 433 

CONSCIENCE, . . 433 

TO  MY  DEAR  OLD  FRIEND,  MR.  A.  SHUMAN,  ...  434 

TO  A.  S.,  ON  HIS  DAUGHTER’S  WEDDING,  ....  434 

TWO  LIVES, 435 

MY  TROUBLES ! 435 

VIGNETTES, 436 

A MESSAGE  OF  PEACE, 437 

A MAN, 438 

FOREVER,  . 441 

MY  NATIVE  LAND, 441 

A YEAR, 443 

THE  FAME  OF  THE  CITY,  ........  443 


xv 


XVI 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

YESTERDAY  AND  TO-MORROW, 444 

IN  BOHEMIA, 445 

SONGS  THAT  ARE  NOT  SUNG, 446 

WENDELL  PHILLIPS, 449 

A SEED, 452 

A TRAGEDY, 452 

DISTANCE, ; 452 

ERIN, 453 

POET  AND  LORD,  . 455 

SPRING  FLOWERS, 455 

THE  LOVING  CUP  OF  THE  PAPYRUS, 456 

UNDER  THE  RIVER, 458 

GRANT— 1885,  458 

AT  BEST, 459 

THE  RIDE  OF  COLLINS  GRAVES, 460 

ENSIGN  EPPS,  THE  COLOR-BEARER, 462 

THE  CRY  OF  THE  DREAMER, 463 

MY  MOTHER’S  MEMORY, 465 

THE  SHADOW, 465 

AT  FREDERICKSBURG,— DECEMBER  13,  1862,  ...  466 

THE  DEAD  SINGER, 469 

THE  PRIESTS  OF  IRELAND, 471 

A LEGEND  OF  THE  BLESSED  VIRGIN, 475 

RELEASED,— JANUARY,  1878, 476 

JOHN  MITCHEL,  DIED  MARCH  20,  1875, 478 

A DEAD  MAN, 479 

A NATION’S  TEST, 481 

LOVE,  AND  BE  WISE, 486 

WHEAT  GRAINS, 487 

THE  PRICELESS  THINGS, 489 

THE  RAINBOW’S  TREASURE, 491 

A WHITE  ROSE, 492 

YES? 492 

WAITING, 493 

CHUNDER  ALPS  WIFE, 494 

A KISS, 496 

JACQUEMINOTS, 496 

THE  CELEBES, 497 

LOVE’S  SACRIFICE, 497 


CONTENTS, 


xvii 

nsE 

HER  REFRAIN, 499 

GOLU, 499 

LOVE’S  SECRET, 501 

A PASSAGE,  . 501 

A LOST  FRIEND. 502 

CONSTANCY, 503 

THE  TEMPLE  OF  FRIENDSHIP, 504 

THE  VALUE  OF  GOLD, ,507 

TO-DAY, 508 

A BUILDER’S  LESSON, ,509 

THE  KING’S  EVIL, 510 

30NE  AND  SINEW  AND  BRAIN, 511 

THE  CITY  STREETS, 513 

THE  INFINITE, 517 

FROM  THE  EARTH,  A CRY, 518 

PROMETHEUS— CHRIST 522 

UNSPOKEN  WORDS, .525 

STAR-GAZING, 526 

A DISAPPOINTMENT, 528 

THE  OLD  SCHOOL  CLOCK, ,528 

WITHERED  SNOWDROPS,  ........  530 

A SAVAGE, 531 

RULES  OF  THE  ROAD, 532 

LOVE  IS  DREAMING, 

* AMERICA 534 

THE  POISON  FLOWER, 539 

PEACE  AND  PAIN, 

HIDDEN  SINS,  541 

THE  LOSS  OF  THE  EMIGRANTS, 542 

TRUST, 

THE  FISHERMEN  OF  WEXFORD, 544 

THE  WELL’S  SECRET, 547 

LIFE  IS  A CONFLUENCE, 548 

THE  PATRIOT’S  GRAVE, 549 

THE  FEAST  OF  THE  GAEL,  553 

MARY, 

THE  WAIL  OF  TWO  CITIES, 556 

MULEY  MALEK,  THE  KING, .558 

HEART-HUNGER, 


XV111  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

SILENCE,  NOT  DEATH, 563 

RESURGITE  !— JUNE,  1877, 564 

IRELAND— 1882, 565 

THE  EMPTY  NICHE, 568 

MIDNIGHT— SEPTEMBER  19,  1881, 570 

THE  TRIAL  OF  THE  GODS, 572 

DYING  IN  HARNESS, 574 

DOLORES, 575 

THE  TREASURE  OF  ABRAM, 577 

THERE  IS  BLOOD  ON  THE  EARTH, 580 

LIVING, . 582 

MACARIUS,  THE  MONK, 583 

THE  UNHAPPY  ONE, 585 

DESTINY, 588 

A SONG  FOR  THE  SOLDIERS 588 

AN  OLD  VAGABOND,  . 592 

THE  STATUES  IN  THE  BLOCK, 594 

THE  THREE  QUEENS, 600 

THE  LAST  OF  THE  NARWHALE, 604 

THE  LURE, 609 

THE  FLYING  DUTCHMAN, 610 

UNCLE  NED’S  TALE— AN  OLD  DRAGOON’S  STORY,  . . 616 

UNCLE  NED’S  TALE-HOW  THE  FLAG  WAS  SAVED,  . . 625 

HAUNTED  BY  TIGERS, 635 

THE  WORD  AND  THE  DEED,  . . 641 

WESTERN  AUSTRALIA, 647 

THE  DUKITE  SNAKE, 648 

THE  MONSTER  DIAMOND, 653 

THE  DOG  GUARD, 658 

THE  AMBER  WHALE, 665 

THE  MUTINY  OF  THE  CHAINS, 677 

THE  KING  OF  THE  VASSE, 685 


CONTENTS. 


XIX 


SPEECHES. 

PAGE 

THE  COMMON  CITIZEN-SOLDIER, 713 

A PATRIOT’S  MONUMENT, 781 

THE  NEGRO-AMERICAN, 738 

MOORE  CENTENARY, 743 

THE  IRISH  NATIONAL  CAUSE, 747 

IRELAND’S  COMMERCIAL  AND  INDUSTRIAL  RESOURCES,  758 
ADDRESS  ON  HENRY  GRATTAN,  780 


INDEX,  . 787 


LIFE  OF 

John  Boyle  O’Reilly. 


BY  JAMES  JEFFREY  ROCHE. 

John  Boyle  O’Reilly. 


BY  JAMES  JEFFREY  ROCHE. 


LIFE  OF 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


CHAPTER  I. 


Birthplace— Childhood  and  Youth— Early  Apprenticeship— Sojourn  in 
England— Enlists  in  “The  Prince  of  Wales’  Own ’’—Conspiracy, 
Detection,  and  Arrest — “The  Old  School  Clock.” 

ROGHEDA  is  a town  with  a history,  and,  as  it  is  an 


Irish  town,  the  history  is  mainly  a tragedy.  Tradi- 
tion says  that  it  was  the  landing  place  of  the  Milesians,  the 
last  and  greatest  of  the  early  invaders  of  Ireland.  A more 
enduring  glory  attaches  to  it  as  the  place  where  St.  Patrick 
landed  wdien  he  came  down  from  the  North  country  to 
brave  the  power  of  the  Druids,  at  the  royal  seat  of  Tara. 
Its  name,  “ Drochead-atha,”  signifies  the  Bridge  of  the 
Ford,  or,  as  it  was  Latinized,  “Urbs  Pontana.”  Danes 
and  Normans  successively  conquered  and  occupied  the  old 
town.  It  lies  on  both  sides  of  the  river  Boyne,  about  four 
miles  from  its  mouth,  and  two  and  one-half  miles  from  Old- 
Bridge,  the  scene  of  the  famous  battle  between  the  forces 
of  King  James  and  those  of  William  of  Orange. 

Forty  years  before  that  disastrous  fight,  Drogheda  had 
suffered  at  the  hands  of  a conqueror  more  ruthless  than 
Dane  or  Norman.  In  1649  the  English  nation  kept  public 
fast  to  invoke  God’s  blessing  upon  Cromwell’s  forces, 
“ Against  the  Papists  and  others,  the  enemies  of  the  Par- 
liament of  England  in  Ireland.”  The  Protector  came  with 
the  Bible  in  one  hand  and  the  sword  in  the  other,  not,  as  a 
Mohammed,  to  offer  the  choice  of  religion  or  death,  but  in 
the  name  of  the  one  to  inflict  the  other.  He  laid  siege  to 
the  town  on  September  2.  At  five  o’clock  on  the  afternoon 


2 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


of  the  10th  he  effected  a breach,  and,  after  being  twice 
repulsed,  carried  the  place  by  assault.  The  defenders  laid 
down  their  arms,  on  promise  of  quarter,  whereupon  the 
victors  fell  upon  the  defenseless  people,  massacring  in  cold 
blood  twenty-eight  hundred  men,  women,  and  children. 
Thirty  persons  were  taken  prisoners,  to  be  eventually  sold 
as  slaves  in  the  Barbadoes.  The  horrible  massacre  lasted 
during  five  days.  The  Irish  vocabulary  is  not  wanting  in 
maledictory  forms,  but  its  bitterest  imprecation  is  “The 
curse  of  Cromwell !”  Banishment  and  confiscation  were 
the  mildest  punishments  inflicted  on  the  vanquished.  The 
Irish  fought  with  desperate  valor,  but  did  not  forget  to  be 
generous,  even  to  a merciless  foe. 

Conspicuous  among  them  for  generous  and  chivalrous 
acts  was  one  chieftain,  O’ Reilly  of  Cavan,,  who  not  only 
gave  quarter  to  his  enemy  in  battle,  but  even  sent  his 
prisoners  in  safety  within  the  English  lines.  The  O’  Reillys 
were  lords  of  Cavan  for  over  a thousand  years.  They 
traced  their  descent  from  Milesius,  through  O’Ragheal- 
laigh,  whose  name  is  Anglicized  into  O’Rahilly,  O’Riellv, 

¥<Wf^isay<!a5^B.’ 

tMe’a  gri&gtfM.’ 

authority  says  it  is 

from  Radii,  ' 'letWfd ftSSRlbfnTOWi!lfIfed, ' ’ “skill- 
ful.” The  nio^t6%$?ii5?lr?ii<rfi]^uT^le,rf'16'i4iiudo  et  pfudentia,” 
,«lftc^,VifbeArsB9i®le,iW)i]i,Cirowned  on 

aPKft>Ai?ftldSPins  are  sti11  found.  In 
later  times  ^Mm9SS,an.  above  tlle 

town  of  CattaT^'iandl.adQf  tedrlAbft  i&i.bal  name  of  Muintir 

fa^ptifti iwm i ai t0»% -py heRV nn Mfe* 

RbHjStMtterPwmife 

iHei'^afiiaslwvp  ahdssWIWRbi^dfflii  lgo^^ryj,^ 

town  of  Cavan,  and  adopted  the  tribal  name  of  Muintir 
Maolmordha,  the  people  of  Milesius,— Milesius,  or  Miles, 
being  a favorite  name  in  the  family.  One  of  them,  “Miles 
the  Slasher,”  was  probably  the  last  of  the  regular  chiefs, 
lie  was  a brave  and  skillful  soldier,  and  did  good  service 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


3 


under  Owen  Roe  O’Neil,  at  the  battle  of  Benburb.  The 
family  had  its  share  of  traditionary  myths.  In  the  County 
Cavan,  near  the  old  seat  of  their  sovereignty,  there  still 
stands  a tree  on  which  one  of  their  beloved  chiefs  was 
hanged  in  an  ancient  “ rising.”  It  is  withered  and  leaf- 
less— tradition  says  it  never  bore  foliage  again  after  that 
day.  The  fortune  of  war  overcame  this  race  of  gallant 
fighters.  Many  of  them  sought  in  foreign  lands  the  career 
denied  them  at  home,  and  the  name,  illustrious  for  centu- 
ries, gained  new  renown  in  France,  Spain,  Austria,  and  the 
wide  domains  of  Spanish  America.  The  O’Reillys  were 
ever  distinguished  as  soldiers,  prelates,  and  scholars. 

Four  miles  above  the  town  of  Drogheda,  on  the  south 
bank  of  the  beautiful  Boyne,  in  the  center  of  a vast  basin 
of  the  most  fertile  and  storied  land  in  Ireland,  stands 
Dowth  Castle,  where  John  Boyle  O’Reilly  was  born,  on 
June  28,  1844.  Within  three  hundred  yards  of  it  is  the 
Moat  of  Dowth,  built  in  the  pre-historic  period.  Four 
miles  to  the  west  rises  the  hill  of  Tara,  while  three  miles  to 
the  north  is  the  hill  of  Slane,  where  St.  Patrick  lit  his 
fire  on  Beltanes  night..1  One!  mile  further;  to  The  north  are 
Jh  e mafe  slid  r u in& i Mel  lif  onfe  Ahhe^p  <Miksi$q;l¥g 

Mimiriv^r  Mnw^li^ilfKXrfel^ 

tfatbess  \kast  him^traiirih^  tA 

<vfo^Jm§e9l ^hepn||t.g®®ai&k)fliRM%- 
ffosnree,  BihteJdesifci^M  richest  ^e^ogfiitotheohdtbh  idsthrio^l 
ItheaBBiestic  ruins  of  Mellifont  Abbey  ; and  two  miles  down 
the  Dbwtha^adi>ldsdate^J  back  hdgthenal^ss  ttoi  ^etBn|$igh 
IPsate,  J amM&oshM  stordiaiiea  Merii  <b  Mlt;  lbi^e  sH>t  ghe  IDgdLaqjL. 
lEtol^o  ik  etteOpreshnfrriMHi^  hYisuonpi^  rNieMerfii  lUp  *&n 

leeoe^rih JMfcnbhlBinanji<i^a^B4)hhdrj4]^  cMkle  MBlo8i&t£ 
tO'faMs'elands  for  the  charitable  object  of  educating  and 
malhiaiining  avi&e  wk  tadM^atos.th  (ThhiNettidrviille  Rngtifet*  - 
Kate,  aaditiswasi (fcatldedhi embraced) ial$ol%  NMifinsO) eSikoyl, 
IhudlJ  ohi  it&igrcpradep  bf  ewMchvWhiram  iDavM^QlR^y  was 
d&&Makt<iriik^  the  castle  and  some 

of  UTer&ithh  yfonn^)  <padhtspieriti  (thdijrst  elh veaki  ly  e&mgofi  Ms 
iliim  talflie^^ to  wlay  iabon|)  lhalf . a ihMe  Nromitlife!  trilveii,i  ttfie 
tion,  as  it  was  called,  embraced  also  a National  School, 
built  on  its  grounds,  of  which  William  David  O’Reilly  was 
the  master  for  thirty-five  years. 

Here  the  young  poet  spent  the  first  eleven  years  of  his 
life.  The  Castle  lay  about  half  a mile  from  the  river,  the 


4 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY". 


intervening  ground  being  a rich,  flat  plain,  known  as  the 
Boyne  Meadow.  The  river  here  is  not  over  one  hundred 
feet  wide,  moderately  rapid,  and  shallow.  On  the  further 
side  the  land  rises  sheer  from  the  water,  and  is  covered  with 
dark  young  fir  trees.  It  was  a favorite  swimming  ground 
for  the  boys  of  the  neighborhood,  among  whom  none  was 
more  daring  or  skillful  than  the  handsome,  rosy-cheeked, 
curly-haired,  and  dark-eyed  boy,  whose  home  was  in 
Dowth  Castle. 

William  David  O’Reilly,  the  father,  was  a fine  scholar, 
and  an  able  educator.  The  boy  was  fortunate  in  having 
parents  who  were  both  remarkable  for  literary  culture  and 
talent.  TIis  mother,  Eliza  Boyle,  was  a near  relative  of  the 
famous  Colonel  John  Allen,  who  distinguished  himself  in 
the  Rebellion  of ’98,  and  subsequently  in  the  French  Legion, 
winning  renown  at  the  head  of  his  regiment  in  the  battle  of 
Astorga  and  in  Napoleon’s  many  later  campaigns. 

Mrs.  O’  Reilly  was  a woman  of  rare  intellectual  gifts,  com- 
bined with  a generous,  hospitable,  kindly  heart,  which  made 
her  beloved  by  the  beneficiaries  of  the  Institution.  The 
elder  O’Reilly  and  his  wife  came  to  Dowth  Castle  from  Dub- 
lin ; they  had  five  daughters  and  three  sons,  all  of  whom  dis- 
played, in  a lesser  degree,  the  poetic  qualities  which  at- 
tained full  growth  in  the  case  of  John  Boyle  O’Reilly. 

John  was  the  second  son  of  the  family.  He  inherited 
a good  constitution,  and  from  childhood  was  passionately 
devoted  to  out-door  sports.  He  swam  the  Boyne,  and 
roamed  among  the  ruins  and  old  underground  passages  of 
the  neighborhood,  unconsciously  absorbing  the  poetry  and 
romance  whose  atmosphere  was  all  around.  He  was  a 
brave,  good-humored  lad,  not  easily  made  angry,  and 
quicker  to  resent  an  injury  done  a small  playfellow  than 
one  offered  himself.  An  unpublished  sketch  from  his  pen 
has  this  autobiographical  bit : “ When  I was  about  nine 
years  of  age,  some  friend  had  gratified  a craving  which  I 
had  then  (and  have  not  lost  yet)  to  own  a dog,  by  present- 
ing me  with  a brown,  broad-backed,  thick- legged,  round- 
bodied, spaniel  puppy,  about  a month  old.  Its  possession 


DOWTH  CASTLE,  COUNTY  MEATH,  IRELAND,  BIRTH-PLACE  OP  JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


5 


was  one  of  the  delicious  incidents,  and  is  now  one  of  the 
delicious  memories  of  my  life.  That  little  brown,  fat  dog, 
that  could  not  walk  through  the  meadow,  but  had  to  jump 
over  every  tangled  spot,  and  miss  five  times  out  of  six,  and 
fall  and  roll  over  when  at  last  he  succeeded,  and  have  to  be 
taken  up  then  and  carried^that  little  brown,  fat  dog,  with 
his  flapping  ears  and  hard  belly,  and  straight,  short  tail, — 
who  wore  the  hair  off  his  back  with  lying  on  it  to  play  with 
the  big  dogs,  or  with  me  ; who  never  could  trot,  he  was  so 
fat  and  round ; who  always  galloped  or  walked  like  an  Aus- 
tralian horse ; who  was  always  so  hungry  that  he  never 
could  take  his  milk  quietly,  but  must  gallop  up  to  it,  and 
charge  into  it,  and  make  himself  cough,— the  possession  of 
that  little  brown  spaniel  puppy  made  me  one  of  the  hap- 
piest and  proudest  boys  in  Ireland.” 

With  such  parents,  and  such  surroundings,  the  lad 
assimilated  knowledge,  and  imbibed  the  profounder  learn- 
ing that  is  not  found  in  books,  that  indefinable  something 
which  makes  all  the  difference  between  a scholar  and  a 
poet.  His  education  could  not  be  said  to  have  been  com- 
pleted when  he  left  school.  They,  only,  have  nothing  more 
to  learn  who  have  nothing  at  all  to  teach  in  after  life. 

But  he  had  a good  education  in  having  learned  how  to 
handle  the  tools  of  knowledge,  when,  at  about  the  age  of 
eleven,  he  left  home  to  enter  the  printing  office  of  the 
Drogheda  Argus , in  the  humble  capacity  of  apprentice, 
and  on  the  still  more  humble  salary  of  two  shillings  and 
sixpence  a week,  which  did  not  include  board  or  lodging. 
The  circumstances  under  which  he  was  induced  to  begin 
the  struggle  of  life  at  such  a tender  age  were  these : His 
brother,  William,  two  and  a half  years  his  senior,  had  been 
bound  as  an  apprentice  in  the  Argus  establishment.  He 
was  a delicate  youth,  and  after  six  months’  service  was 
obliged  by  ill-health  to  give  up  his  place.  John,  then  a 
fine,  manly  little  fellow,  hearing  his  mother  lament  the 
loss  of  the  premium,  which  amounted  to  fifty  pounds, 
offered  to  take  his  brother’s  place,  and  the  offer  was  ulti- 
mately accepted.  His  salary  was  increased  at  the  rate  of 


6 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


sixpence  a week  every  year,  the  Argus  in  this  respect  not 
differing  from  other  printing-offices  in  the  country.  A 
certain  stint  of  work  had  to  be  done  in  return,  and  extra 
pay  was  allowed  for  all  in  excess  thereof.  Young  O’Reilly 
was  so  apt  a pupil  that  he  very  soon  was  in  receipt  of  twice 
his  nominal  wages.  His  parents,  of  course,  provided  for 
whatever  deficit  might  exist  between  his  income  and  out- 
lay. The  work  was  not  hard,  but  the  hours  were  long, — 
six  to  nine  o’clock  before  breakfast,  ten  to  two  before  din- 
ner, and  three  to  seven  or  eight  before  supper.  The  boy 
was  a prime  favorite  in  the  work-room,  his  handsome  face, 
courteous  manners,  and  kindly  disposition  making  him  the 
pet  rather  than  the  butt  which  the  printer’s  “devil”  often 
is.  He  was  full  of  good-humor  and  fun  that  was  some- 
times mischievous,  but  never  malicious.  Probably  his  first 
poetic  effort  (if  it  may  be  so  called)  was  the  New  Year’s 
Day  song  written  for  the  paper-carriers,  and  addressed  to 
their  patrons,  with  a view  to  obtaining  gratuities.  Here, 
as  elsewhere,  he  was  an  omnivorous  reader  and  an  inces- 
sant dabbler  in  rhymes. 

The  death  of  the  proprietor  of  the  Argus  discharged 
the  indentures  of  young  O’Reilly  when  he  had  served 
nearly  four  years  of  his  time. 

While  enjoying  a period  of  enforced  idleness  at  home, 
the  ship  Caledonian , owned  and  commanded  by  his 
uncle,  Capt.  James  Watkinson,  of  Preston,  England,  came 
to  Drogheda,  and  loaded  with  a cargo  of  barley  for  Pres- 
ton. Capt.  Watkinson  was  an  Englishman,  who  had  mar- 
ried a sister  of  Mrs.  O’Reilly.  John  accepted  his  invita- 
tion to  make  a voyage  and  visit  to  his  aunt,  Mrs.  Wat- 
kinson, and  accordingly  set  sail  for  Preston  in  August  or 
September,  1859. 

At  the  suggestion  of  his  relatives,  he  secured  a situation 
as  apprentice  in  the  office  of  the  Guardian , then  pub- 
lished in  Cannon  Street,  Preston,  ultimately  graduating 
from  the  printer’s  case  to  the  reporter’s  desk.  He  learned 
shorthand,  and  otherwise  equipped  himself  for  the  busi- 
ness of  a journalist. 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


7 


Owing  in  part  tp  its  proximity  to  Ireland,  and  in  part 
to  the  fact  that  it  has  always  kept  the  old  Faith,  Preston 
is  an  English  stronghold  of  Catholicity,  with  a large  Irish 
population,  sustaining  its  original  name  of  “ Priest  Town.” 

He  took  part  in  the  trade  procession  of  the  Guilds  in 
September,  1862.  This  jubilee  is  one  of  the  institutions  of 
Preston  which  dates  back  to  the  reign  of  Henry  the  Sec- 
ond, and  is  celebrated  every  twenty  years.  During  its 
progress,  which  lasts  some  ten  days,  the  whole  town 
enjoys  a holiday  with  daily  processions  and  nightly  illumi- 
nations, attracting  thousands  of  visitors  from  all  parts  of 
the  country. 

About  a year  after  his  arrival  he  became  a member,  and 
later  a non-commissioned  officer,  of  Company  2,  Eleventh 
Lancashire  Rifle  Volunteers.  He  was  an  enthusiastic  sol- 
dier, and  an  especial  favorite  in  his  company. 

The  three  and  a half  years  of  his  life  in  Preston  were 
among  the  happiest  he  was  ever  to  know.  Writing  to  a 
friend  in  1881,  he  said : 

It  is  pleasant  to  be  remembered  kindly  through  nearly  twenty  years 
of  absence.  To  me  every  impression  of  Preston  has  kept  its  sharp  out- 
line. Yet  I have  been  very  busy  and  very  unsettled  during  that  time. 
....  But  all  the  years  and  events  fade  when  I think  of  dear  old  Pres- 
ton— and  I find  myself  on  the  Ribble  in  an  outrigger,  striking  away 

under  Walton  heights,  or  pulling  a race  with  Mr.  P between  the 

bridges.  . . . 

Do  you  remember  the  day  we  went  to  Ribchester,  and  then  walked 
up  along  the  river  to  Stonyhurst  ? Somehow  that  day  stands  out  as 
one  of  the  happiest  and  brightest  in  my  life.  I remember  every  inci- 
dent as  if  it  were  yesterday.  Though  I lived  only  a few  years  in  Pres- 
ton, I love  it  and  the  friends  I made  there  better  than  any  I have  since 
known.  In  worldly  way  I have  prospered  ; and  in  literary  repute  I 
stand  well  in  this  country.  I am  busy  from  morning  till  night.  But 
under  all  the  changed  appearances  and  surroundings  the  stream  of  my 
old  friendships  and  pleasures  flows  steadily  along. 

During  all  the  time  of  his  residence  at  Preston  he  dwelt 
at  the  house  of  his  aunt,  at  81  Barton  Terrace,  Deepdale 
Road,  leading  a quiet,  studious  life.  During  the  winter 
months  he  got  up  amateur  theatricals.  At  Christmas  he 


8 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


prepared  a splendid  performance,  with  a stage  erected  in  the 
back  parlor,  and  an  audience  of  little  children,  with  one  or 
two  older  friends  from  the  Guardian  office. 

This  happy,  tranquil,  care-free  life,  eminently  congenial 
to  the  poet,  did  not  satisfy  the  aspirations  of  the  youth  who 
was  much  more  than  a poet.  Nevertheless,  it  was  with 
many  a heartache  and  some  tears  that  he  obeyed  a call 
from  his  father  to  return  home  on  the  expiration  of  his  term 
of  apprenticeship,  and  seek  employment  on  some  Irish 
paper.  There  was  something  besides  filial  obedience  im- 
pelling him  when  he  left  Preston,  forever,  about  the  end  of 
March,  1863.  He  had  become  deeply  imbued  with  the 
revolutionary  principles,  then  so  freely  adopted  by  patriotic 
Irishmen  in  all  parts  of  the  world.  He  dreamed  of  mak- 
ing his  country  free — not  merely  independent  of  the  Brit, 
ish  connection,  but  absolutely  free— in  short,  a republic. 

The  Fenian  movement  was  the  crystallization  of  national 
discontent  and  aspiration  for  liberty,  which  had  remained 
latent,  but  not  dead,  ever  since  the  disastrous  rising  of 
1798.  O’Connell  had  failed  to  secure  the  repeal  of  the 
Union  through  agitation.  The  brilliant  and  daring  spirits 
of  * ‘ Young  Ireland  ’ ’ had  appealed  to  force,  in  1848.  Noth- 
ing came  of  it  but  defeat  and  humiliation.  Irish  orators 
have  fervently  characterized  the  condition  of  their  country- 
men as  one  of  slavery.  The  phrase  is  unjust  and  misleading. 
The  slave-master  has  a personal,  selfish  interest  in  the  wel- 
fare of  his  bondman.  The  death  of  a slave  means  pecun- 
iary loss  to  his  owner  ; the  escape  of  one  is  something  to  be 
prevented  at  any  cost.  It  is  business  policy  to  keep  the 
unpaid  worker  well  and  strong.  Unfortunately  for  the 
wretched  people  of  Ireland  they  were  not  slaves.  When 
they  died  by  thousands  in  the  dark  year  of  famine,  when 
they  fled  the  country  by  millions  in  the  following  years, 
their  masters  were  unmoved  by  the  one  calamity  ; they 
rejoiced  at  the  other.  The  vacant  places  were  filled  less 
expensively  than  by  purchase  at  the  auction-block.  The 
sharp  goad  of  hunger  sent  its  victims  to  the  human  mart 
more  surely  than  the  slave-driver’s  whip.  And  political 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


9 


economy,  which  knows  no  sentiment,  had  decided  that  cat- 
tle were  more  profitable  dwellers  on  the  soil  than  men  and 
women. 

Ireland  was  “pacified.”  There  was  less  discontent  in 
1860  than  there  had  been  twenty  years  before ; because 
there  were  fewer  men  and  women,  by  three  millions,  to  be 
discontented.  Order  reigned  in  Ireland,  as  it  had  reigned 
in  Warsaw.  And  so  the  country  was  desperately  ripe  for 
insurrection. 

The  Fenians  had  planned  a far-reaching  scheme  of  revo- 
lution. Popular  discontent  with  misgovernment  could  be 
relied  upon  as  one  agency  ; for  the  Irishman  is  ever  a rebel 
against  tyranny.  Centuries  of  bitter  experience  have  not 
broken  his  spirit,  nor  checked  his  aspirations. 

The  American  Civil  War  was  another  element.  The 
leaders  counted  on  sympathy  and  aid  from  the  people  of 
the  North,  sorely  grieved  by  the  conduct  of  England  in 
abetting  the  South.  They  counted  on  the  more  active  sup- 
port of  thousands  of  Irisli-American  soldiers  who  owed  a 
double  debt  of  vengeance  to  the  oppressors  of  their  native 
land  and  the  enemy  of  their  adopted  country. 

But  their  shrewdest  expectation  was  based  on  the  dis- 
affection which  they  hoped,  and  not  in  vain,  to  be  able  to 
sow  in  the  ranks  of  the  British  army  itself.  More  than 
thirty-one  per  cent,  of  the  rank  and  file  of  that  army,  in 
1860,  were  Irishmen. 

The  proportion  of  potential  rebels  was  morally  increased 
when  John  Boyle  O’Reilly  went  over  to  Ireland,  in  May, 
1863,  to  enlist  as  a trooper  in  the  Tenth  Hussars.  One 
does  not  weigh  dangerous  consequences  against  generous 
impulses,  at  nineteen  years  of  age.  No  more  does  he  in- 
quire with  minute  casuistry  into  the  exact  moral  values  of 
the  deed.  In  entering  the  military  service  of  the  British 
Government,  with  the  object  of  overthrowing' the  monarchy, 
he  was  guilty  of  treason,  in  the  eye  of  the  law. 

But  the  penalty  of  treason,  in  any  form,  was  death. 
There  is  no  higher  penalty  ; if  there  were  it  would  have 
been  decreed  for  such  offenses.  Whether  he  plotted  against 


10 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


the  Crown  within  the  ranks  of  the  army,  or  defied  its  power 
in  open  futile  insurrection,  the  rebel’s  life  was  equally 
forfeit.  The  government  puts  no  premium  upon  open 
hostility;  it  sets  no  special  ban  upon  secret  conspiracy. 
George  Washington  would  have  been  hanged  as  ruthlessly 
as  Robert  Emmet  had  his  scheme  of  treason  failed. 

As  the  event  proved,  the  boldness  of  the  conspirators 
was  their  salvation.  The  government,  terrified  at  the  extent 
to  which  disloyalty  had  pervaded  the  ranks,  dared  not 
be  very  severe  in  administering  punishment.  Rebellious 
Sepoys  might  be  blown  from  the  cannon’s  mouth,  but  there 
were  too  many  Irishmen  in  the  army  to  make  such  a measure 
wise  in  dealing  with  Fenians. 

Young  O’Reilly  was  not  the  man  to  weigh  all  these  scru- 
ples or  chances.  Like  Nathan  Hale  and  Major  Andre,  he 
risked  his  life,  but  not  his  honor,  when  he  entered  the 
enemy’ s lines.  He  would  have  accepted  their  fate  without  a 
murmur,  as  the  fortune  of  war,  but  when  he  joined  the  Tenth 
Hussars  for  the  express  purpose  of  recruiting  the  ranks  of 
republicanism,  he  was  animated  by  no  motive  more  complex 
than  that  described  by  himself  in  after  years  : “ They  said 

to  us : ‘ Come  on,  boys,  it  is  for  Ireland,’— and  we  came.” 

Never  did  dark  conspirator  bear  lighter  heart  than  did 
this  brilliant  boy  when  he  donned  the  handsome  uniform  of 
the  Tenth.  Valentine  Baker  was  its  colonel,  then  a brave, 
dashing,  petted  soldier  ; later  a just  victim  of  British  pro- 
priety, and,  later  yet,  the  denationalized  servant  of  the  un- 
speakable Turk.  “ O’  Reilly  was  a good  soldier,”  testified 
Baker  at  the  trial  of  the  rebellious  Hussar.  More  than 
once  he  had  received  petty  promotion,  which  he  always 
took  care  to  have  canceled  by  some  breach  of  discipline,  for 
he  did  not  wish  to  owe  over- much  to  the  service. 

The  life  of  the  trooper  had  many  charms  for  him.  He 
loved  its  splendid  glamour,  being  a soldier  by  inheritance 
and  instinct.  He  rejoiced  in  martial  pastimes,  and  he 
was  young  and  comely  enough  to  take  a pleasure  in  the4gay 
trappings  of  a cavalryman.  It  delighted  him,  as  he  after- 
ward confessed,  to  go  out  of  his  way,  when  sent  on  a mes- 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


11 


sage  of  duty,  in  order  to  pass  a certain  great  plate-glass 
window,  in  which  he  could  behold  the  dazzling  proportions 
of  himself  and  his  steed.  But  the  boyish  pride  had  in  it 
nothing  to  spoil  his  manliness.  He  coveted,  and  easily 
won,  the  truer  happiness  of  knowing  that  he  was  beloved 
by  his  fellows.  The  qualities  which  had  made  him  the 
favorite  of  the  printing-office  and  the  Volunteer  barracks, 
which  were  destined  to  win  the  hearts  of  thousands  in  every 
rank  of  life,  in  a strange  land,  gave  him  a high  place  in  the 
hearts  of  the  rough  troopers  of  the  Tenth.  By  his  personal 
magnetism,  as  much  as  by  the  force  of  his  eloquence,  he 
turned  many  a stout  fellow  from  allegiance  to  the  Queen, 
to  the  more  dangerous  path  of  devotion  to  country. 

Before  coming  to  the  abrupt  close  of  his  service  as  a 
trooper  in  the  “Prince  of  Wales’  Own,”  it  is  worth  while 
to  dwell  for  a moment  on  the  life  which  he  loved  so  well. 
Among  his  unpublished  papers  I find  some  interesting  frag- 
mentary sketches  of  military  life,  which  show  what  his 
possibilities  were  had  he  possessed  the  leisure  or  inclination 
to  amplify  them  into  pictures. 

One  is  a delightful  view  of  a passing  regiment  entitled : 

THE  PICKET  OF  DRAGOONS. 

On  a bright  March  morning,  about  ten  o’clock,  the  loungers  on  the 
quay  along  the  river  Liffey,  that  flows  peacefully  through  the  center  of 
Dublin,  turned  their  indolent  backs  to  the  low  wall  and  gazed  at  the 
mounted  picket  of  dragoons  on  its  way  to  the  “ Castle.”  The  soldiers 
were  going  to  relieve  the  picket  from  another  cavalry  regiment  that 
had  been  on  guard  since  the  day  before.  The  picket  was  composed  of 
a sergeant,  a corporal,  and  twelve  troopers.  The  sun  glittered  on  their 
burnished  bits,  stirrups,  and  swords,  and  on  the  silk-like  coats  of  their 
well-groomed  horses.  They  rode  leisurely,  in  perfect  order. 

The  sergeant,  old,  white-mustached,  red-nosed,  and  very  corpulent, 
rode  in  front,  his  right  hand  planted  jauntily  on  his  thigh,  and  his 
wicked  eye  raking  the  sidewalk  for  'female  admiration,  and  glancing 
into  the  large  shop  windows,  where  he  caught  a passing  reflection  of 
his  graceful  self. 

“ Old  Jock  is  in  no  hurry  this  morning,”  said  one  of  the  drummers, 
with  a low  laugh,  to  the  comrade  next  him.  “ Hurry  ! old  peacock  ! ” 
grumbled  the  other  ; “he  would  like  to  parade  here  all  day.  Just 
look  ! ” A lady  who  had  been  approaching  on  the  almost  deserted 


12 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


sidewalk  had  stopped  a little  ahead,  with  the  evident  intention  of 
taking  a good  look  at  the  soldiers.  Oh  ! the  subtle  influence  of  the 
sex.  Every  man  in  the  picket  sat  a little  straighter,  and  even  the 
horses  seemed  to  curve  their  necks  until  their  lips  kissed  the  brazen 
boss  of  the  breastplate. 

It  was  a sweet  moment  for  the  sergeant.  He  leaned  forward,  taking 
the  reins  in  his  right  hand  a moment  to  pat  the  horse’s  neck  with  his 
left  white-gauntleted  hand,  which  was  next  the  sidewalk.  Then  he 
sat  easily  back,  right  hand  on  thigh  again,  and  blandly  turned  to  beam 
on  the  admiring  divinity.  Rare  moment  ! Only  he  who  has  worn 
war-paint  knows  the  meaning  of  it.  The  foam-fleck  on  the  bit,  the 
shining  color  of  the  chain  on  the  horse’s  neck,  the  reminding  touch  of 
the  hilt  against  the  thigh, — all  these  common,  daily  things  are  felt  anew, 
with  a fresh  significance  known  to  the  recruit,  when  they  are  mirrored 
in  the  admiring,  ignorant  eyes  of  womanhood. 

The  Tenth  Hussars  were  picked  men,  at  least  physically. 
Morally  and  mentally  they  were  also  above  the  average, 
wThich  was  not  high,  of  the  army.  A youth  like  O’  Reilly, 
full  of  generous  impulses  and  lofty  aspirations,  would  have 
been  strangely  out  of  place  among  the  men  whom  the  latest 
novelist  has  given  to  the  world  as  representative  British 
soldiers.  But  the  troopers  of  the  Tenth  were  far  above 
such  ruthless  swashbucklers.  Types  of  the  latter  were  to 
be  met  with  at  the  great  military  musters  of  Aldershot  and 
the  Curragh.  “ Are  Mulvaney  and  Learoyd  and  Ortheris 
fair  representatives  of  the  British  private  ? ’ ’ was  a question 
put  to  the  ex-private  of  Troop  D,  of  the  Tenth  Hussars, 
shortly  after  the  appearance  on  the  literary  stage  of  these 
Anglo-Indian  musketeers.  “They  are  not  average  sol- 
diers,” he  replied,  “but  they  are  not  caricatures.  I have 
seen  men  fully  as  depraved  as  Mr.  Kipling’s  hero,  who 
boasted  of  having  ‘ put  his  foot  through  every  one  of  the 
Ten  Commandments  between  “ reveille”  and  “ lights  out.”  ’ 
I met  one  at  a review  on  the  Curragh,  who  told  me,  with- 
out the  slightest  apparent  thought  of  the  atrocity  of  the 
deed,  how  he  and  his  comrades  had  once  roasted  a Hindoo 
gentleman  to  death,  out  of  pure,  wanton  savagery.  He  did 
not  consider  it  a crime  to  be  ashamed  of,  nor  a feat  to  boast 
of.  It  was  simply  an  incident  in  his  campaign  experience.” 

It  would  be  a gross  libel  to  say  that  the  British  army  is 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


13 


mainly,  or  even  largely,  made  up  of  such  truculent  ruffians 
as  these,  or  that  even  the  milder  villainies  chronicled  by 
Kipling  are  fairly  characteristic  of  them.  It  is  neverthe- 
less true  that  few  men  of  good  character  enter  the  ranks, 
unless  impelled  by  stern  necessity,  or  by  such  a higher 
motive  as  that  which  sent  O’Reilly  and  scores  of  other 
incipient  rebels  thither.  Thirty  years  ago,  the  British 
private  soldier  was  looked  upon  as  a moral  outcast  by  even 
the  humblest  of  honest  folk  in  civil  life.  Characteris- 
tically enough,  the  same  people,  as  well  as  their  “ betters,’’ 
had  nothing  but  envious  admiration  for  the  commissioned 
officer,  whose  morals  were  not  a whit  choicer  than  those  of 
the  enlisted  man.  But  that  inconsistency  of  human  nature 
is  as  old  as  the  noble  trade  of  war  itself. 

There  were  good  men  as  well  as  good  soldiers,  thousands 
of  them,  in  the  rank  and  file.  It  was  always  the  good  men 
and  good  soldiers  among  the  Irishmen  who  were  most 
easily  converted  to  the  doctrines  of  Fenianism.  This  is  one 
of  the  commonest  fruits  of  misgovernment. 

O’  Reilly  was  a model  soldier,  quick  to  learn  and  punc- 
tual to  obey  the  rules  of  military  discipline.  He  was  the 
life  of  the  barracks,  infecting  his  comrades  with  something 
of  his  own  gay  and  cheery  nature.  He  was  foremost  in 
every  amusement,  lightening  the  dullness  of  life  in  quarters 
with  concerts  and  dramatic  performances,  sometimes  of  his 
own  composition,  a strong  Nationalist  tone  pervading  all 
his  work.  Treasonable  songs  and  ballads  were  chanted  in 
the  quarters  of  troop  D,  and  spread  among  the  other  com- 
panies. With  boyish  recklessness . he  embroidered  rebel 
devices  on  the  under  side  of  his  saddle-cloth,  and  in  the 
lining  of  his  military  overcoat. 

Yet  when  the  Government,  alarmed  at  the  spread  of 
disaffection,  sent  its  secret  agents  to  investigate,  the  con- 
spirators hoodwinked  and  baffled  all  the  minor  spies,  and 
laughed  in  their  sleeves  at  the  dullness  of  Scotland  Yard. 
Treason  continued  to  flourish,  and,  but  for  counter-treason, 
might  have  flourished  indefinitely.  Talbot,  the  arch- 
informer, was  detailed  to  work  up  the  case.  He  was  a use- 


14 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


ful  agent  of  Government,  a smooth,  insidious  scoundrel, 
who  ingratiated  himself  into  the  confidence  of  the  most 
wary,  professing  the  warmest  patriotic  sentiments,  and 
carrying  his  deception  even  to  the  extent  of  assuming  to  be 
a devout  Catholic.  As  such  he  went  to  Confession  and 
Communion  with  pious  punctuality. 

This  utterly  depraved  scoundrel  deserves  more  than 
passing  mention.  His  other  deserts  he  received  when,  in 
open  day,  on  a crowded  Dublin  street,  he  was  shot  dead  by 
an  illegal  agent  of  righteous  retribution.  In  the  year  1864, 
under  the  assumed  name  of  Kelly,  and  the  disguise  of  a 
zealous  Catholic  and  patriot,  he  presented  himself  to  the 
Fenian  conspirators  at  Clonmel,  Tipperary,  and  showed  so 
much  enthusiasm  in  the  cause  that  he  was  speedily  ap- 
pointed an  officer  and  authorized  to  organize  a “ circle.” 
His  zeal  was  so  great  that  he  made  many  converts  among 
young  men  who,  but  for  his  exhortations,  would  never 
have  dreamed  of  entering  upon  such  a dangerous  adven- 
ture. He  personally  administered  the  Fenian  oath  to  a 
large  number  of  soldiers. 

When  the  collapse  came,  the  chief  witness  for  the  Gov- 
ernment was  the  oily  “ Mr.  Kelly,”  water-bailiff  of  Clon- 
mel, alias  Head  Constable  Talbot.  This  Government  agent 
was  the  lay  figure  from  which  Boucicault  drew  one  of 
his  greatest  studies,  Harvey  Buff , the  informer  in  “The 
Shaughraun.” 

Ten  years  after  Talbot’s  betrayal  of  the  Fenians,  and 
two  years  after  the  informer  had  gone  to  his  account,  one 
of  his  victims  wrote  as  follows  in  his  paper,  the  Boston 
Pilot : 

“There  is  underlying  the  character  of  ‘ The  Shaughraun,’ 
one  rigid  and  terrible  line — a line  typical  and  national — 
hatred  of  an  informer . Mr.  Boucicault,  an  Irishman  him- 
self, must  have  carefully  studied  the  devilish  character  of 
Talbot  before  he  drew  that  of  Harvey  Buff . Here,  too, 
we  find  a man — coward  at  heart,  but  confident  and  cun- 
ning—who  wins  the  trust  of  the  peasantry,  and  then  swears 
their  lives  away.  Villainy  added  to  villainy  fills  the  trai- 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


15 


tor’s  cup  at  last,  and  the  awful  hour  comes  when  the  in- 
former cowers  like  a cur  at  the  feet  of  the  Shaughraun , and 
gasps  in  terror  at  the  cries  of  the  country  people  coming 
down  the  hillside  in  pursuit.  Here  stands  out  the  rigid 
line  that  subtends  the  character  of  laughter-loving,  but 
now  terrible  Conn.  The  drollery  dies  out  of  his  face  and 
the  light  freezes  in  his  eye.  Seizing  the  kneeling  wretch 
by  the  throat,  he  laughs  in  his  agonized  face,  as  pitiless  as 
Fate. 

Listen  to  them,’  he  cries,  pointing  to  the  hillside  ; 
* look  at  them  ! They  are  coming  for  you  ! Do  you  see 
that  old  man  with  the  spade  ? That’s  Andy  Donovan, 
whose  son  you  sent  to  prison.  And  that  old  woman  with 
the  hatchet?  That’s  Bridget  Madigan,  whose  boys  you 
sent  across  the  sea.  Pity  ! you  dog  ! I’ll  have  pity  on 
you,  as  you  had  'pity  on  them  / ’ ” 

On  the  one  side  was  pitted  the  might,  and  money,  and 
influence  of  a great  Empire  ; on  the  other,  the  reckless 
courage  and  uncalculating  patriotism  of  the  few  and  friend- 
less, but  generous-hearted  dreamers  like  Boyle  O’  Reilly. 

John  Devoy,  the  indefatigable  agent  of  the  revolutionary 
party,  tells  how  he  first  met  the  young  Hussar  who  was  to 
play  such  a prominent  part  in  the  after  history  of  his  coun- 
try : 

“ I met  him  first  in  October,  1865,  and  the  circumstances 
were  characteristic  of  that  troubled  period  of  Irish  history. 
The  Tenth  was  quartered  at  Island  Bridge  Barracks,  in  the 
western  outskirts  of  Dublin.  There  was  a warrant  for  my 
arrest  as  a Fenian  at  the  time,  and  I could  not  go  home  or 
attend  to  business.  I had  some  acquaintance  with  the 
army,  through  living  near  the  Curraghcamp,  and,  when  all 
the  ‘ organizers  ’ for  the  army  had  been  arrested  or  forced 
to  remain  ‘ on  their  keeping,’  James  Stephens,  the  chief 
executive  of  the  Irish  republic  that  was  to  be,  appointed 
me  ‘ chief  organizer  ’ for  the  British  army.  The  position 
involved  some  risks,  but  I undertook  it,  and  in  a few  months 
laid  up  sufficient  evidence  to  procure  myself  a sentence  of 
fifteen  years’  penal  servitude. 


16 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


“ I succeeded  very  well  with  all  the  regiments  of  the 
Dublin  garrison  except  the  Tenth  Hussars,  and  I wanted  to 
do  the  best  I could  with  it,  on  account  of  the  location  of 
the  barracks.  The  men  were  mainly  English,  but  there 
were  about  a hundred  Irishmen  among  them.  Those  I 
had  met  were  mostly  worthless,  and  I could  make  no  head- 
way. At  last  a young  veterinary  surgeon  from  Drogheda, 
named  Harry  Byrne,  now  dead — all  the  men  of  that  period 
are  dying  off — was  introduced  to  me  by  Colonel  Kelly,  the 
man  afterward  rescued  in  Manchester.  He  told  me  there 
was  a young  fellow  of  his  acquaintance  in  the  Tenth  who 
would  just  fill  the  bill.  In  half  an  hour  we  were  on  our  way 
to  Island  Bridge  on  an  outside  car.  We  dismissed  it  some 
distance  away  and  went  into  the  barracks.  The  regiment 
had  been  stationed  in  Drogheda,  and  Byrne  knew  many  of 
the  officers  and  sergeants  through  his  profession.  In  the 
barrack  square  we  met  a bluff,  hearty  sergeant  major,  an 
Englishman  of  the  best  type,  whom  Byrne  knew.  He  told 
us  O’Reilly  was  on  picket  at  the  royal  barracks.  There 
were  heavy  pickets  of  cavalry  and  infantry  kept  in  readi- 
ness for  emergencies  at  certain  points  in  Dublin  during  these 
exciting  times.  We  went  into  the  canteen  and  had  a drink 
and  a chat  with  the  old  veteran,  and  he  praised  O’Reilly  to 
the  skies.  He  pronounced  him  the  best  young  soldier  in 
the  regiment,  and  evidently  thought  there  was  a great 
future  before  him.  ‘I  shouldn’t  wonder,’  said  he,  4 if  in 
five  or  six  years  that  young  fellow’ d be  a troop  sawjent 
majah.’ 

“We  went  to  the  royal  barracks,  not  far  away,  and, 
meeting  some  Fenian  troopers  of  the  Fifth  Dragoon  Guards, 
were  soon  piloted  to  where  the  picket  of  the  Tenth  was 
stationed.  O’Reilly  was  in  the  stable  tightening  his  saddle 
girths  and  getting  ready  to  mount  and  start  off  to  the 
viceregal  lodge  with  a dispatch  for  the  lord  lieutenant  from 
Sir  Hugh  Rose,  the  commander  of  the  forces  in  Ireland. 
Byrne  had  just  time  to  introduce  us,  and  O’Reilly  and  I to 
make  an  appointment  for  the  next  evening,  when  he  brought 
out  his  horse,  sprang  into  the  saddle,  and  was  off.  O’  Reilly 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


17 


was  then  a handsome,  lithely  built  young  fellow  of  twenty, 
with  the  down  of  a future  black  mustache  on  his  lip.  He 
had  a pair  of  beautiful  dark  eyes,  that  changed  in  expres- 
sion with  his  varying  emotions.  He  wore  the  full-dress 
dark  blue  hussar  uniform,  with  its  mass  of  braiding  across 
the  breast,  and  the  busby,  with  its  tossing  plume,  was  set 
jauntily  on  the  head  and  held  by  a linked  brass  strap, 
catching  under  the  lower  lip. 

“ From  that  time  till  the  following  February,  when  we 
were  both  arrested  within  a few  days  of  each  other,  I saw 
him  almost  every  day.  When  on  guard  or  picket  duty  he 
never  failed  to  communicate  to  me,  through  William  Curry, 
a furloughed  corporal  of  the  Eighty-seventh  Foot, — the 
famous  ‘Faugh  a Ballaghs,’ — who  could  go  in  and  out  of 
the  barracks,  every  change  worth  knowing  in  the  location 
and  strength  of  the  guards  and  pickets.  He  brought  in 
some  eighty  men  to  be  sworn  in,  had  them  divided  into 
two  .prospective  troops,  obtained  possession  of  the  key  of 
an  unused  postern  gate,  and  had  everything  ready  to  take 
his  men,  armed  and  mounted,  out  of  the  barracks  at  a given 
signal.  The  signal  never  came,  and  all  his  and  other  men’s 
risks  and  sacrifices  were  thrown  away  through  incompetent 
and  nerveless  leadership.” 

It  was  time  for  the  Government  to  exert  itself,  as  fifteen 
thousand  British  soldiers  had  been  enrolled  in  the  ranks  of 
the  revolutionists.  On  the  15th  of  September,  1865,  the 
blow  fell.  The  Irish  People  newspaper,  which  had  been 
for  two  years  the  organ  of  the  physical  force  party,  was 
seized  by  the  police,  and  its  editors,  Thomas  Clark  Luby, 
John  O’Leary,  and  Jeremiah  O’ Donovan  Rossa,  were  put 
under  arrest.  This  action  of  the  Government  was  wholly 
unexpected  on  the  part  of  the  conspirators,  who  had,  very 
unwisely,  foreborne  to  destroy  hundreds  of  letters  of  an 
incriminating  nature  from  fellow- conspirators  in  all  parts 
of  the  country.  The  authorities,  by  one  stroke,  were  thus 
given  the  key  to  the  whole  revolutionary  scheme.  In  the 
following  November,  Charles  Joseph  Kickham,  another 
editor  of  The  Irish  People,  was  arrested,  together  with 


18 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


James  Stephens,  the  great  “ Head  Center’’  of  the  Fenian 
movement.  Stephens  escaped  from  Richmond  prison  be- 
fore he  could  be  brought  to  trial.  The  man  through  whose 
skill  and  daring  he  was  rescued  from  the  very  lion’s  jaws 
was  John  Breslin,  of  whom  we  shall  hear  again  in  a still 
more  audacious,  successful  exploit.  By  a curious  coinci- 
dence, John  Boyle  O’Reilly  was  one  of  the  soldiers  detailed 
to  guard  the  court  room  on  the  occasion  of  O’ Donovan 
Rossa’s  trial.  The  famous  “dynamiter”  recognized  his 
former  guard  when  they  met,  years  afterward,  in  New 
York. 

O’Reilly  was  looking  out  of  the  barrack  windows  at 
Island  Bridge,  in  the  city  of  Dublin,  on  the  afternoon  of 
February  12,  1866,  when  he  saw  one  of  his  fellow-conspira- 
tors arrested  and  led  to  the  guard-house.  “My  turn  will 
come  next,”  he  said  quietly.  His  prediction  was  verified  ; 
he  was  arrested  within  forty-eight  hours.  As  he  traversed 
the  barrack-yard,  in  charge  of  a detective,  his  colonel  met 
him,  and  shaking  his  fist  in  the  prisoner’s  face,  exclaimed, 
“Damn  you,  O’Reilly!  you  have  ruined  the  finest  regi- 
ment in  the  service.”  There  was  perhaps  as  much  of  regret 
as  of  anger  in  the  imprecation  ; for  Valentine  Baker  liked 
the  bright  and  handsome  young  Hussar,  whom  he  had  once 
saved  from  an  ignominious  punishment,  and  the  feeling 
was  reciprocated.  Years  afterwards,  when  their  situations 
were  reversed,  and  O’  Reilly,  prosperous  and  honored,  read 
of  the  shame  that  had  come  upon  his  old  commander,  he 
was  moved  by  genuine  sorrow  and  sympathy  for  the  fallen 
soldier. 

While  he  lay  in  Arbor  Hill  military  prison,  closely 
guarded,  as  was  each  of  the  accused,  pressure  was  brought 
to  bear  upon  him  to  inform  against  his  comrades.  He  was 
assured  that  others  had  secured  immunity  for  themselves  by 
making  a clean  breast  of  their  connection  with  the  conspiracy. 
Certain  weak  men  to  whom  a similar  assurance  had  been  given 
had,  indeed,  been  duped  into  becoming  informers.  Isol- 
ation, silence,  the  grim  uncertainty  that  hung  over  all,  and 
especially  the  seed  of  suspicion  so  carefully  sown,  that  he 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


19 


who  held  out  longest  would  suffer  the  worst,  were  argu- 
ments strong  enough  to  weaken  many  a man  who  would 
not  have  wavered  if  ordered  to  charge  a battery.  The 
warden  who  had  immediate  charge  of  O’Reilly  was  an  old 
soldier  and  an  Englishman.  As  a loyal  subject  he  hated 
treason ; but,  as  a soldier,  he  bore  no  love  for  a traitor  to 
his  fellows.  As  in  duty  bound  he  officially  countenanced 
the  efforts  of  the  authorities  to  secure  evidence  by  any  and 
all  means.  One  day,  just  before  that  fixed  for  the  trial, 
another  official  labored  for  the  last  time  long  and  earnestly 
to  extort  a confession  from  O’Reilly,  assuring  him  that 
others  had  owned  up  and  that  it  would  be  suicidal  folly  in 
him  to  remain  silent  when  he  could  secure  pardon  by  tell- 
ing all  he  knew.  The  warden,  who  was  present,  threw  in 
an  occasional  perfunctory  remark  to  the  same  effect.  As 
the  prisoner  continued  obdurate,  the  official  took  his  leave, 
with  a parting  warning  of  the  dread  consequences.  The 
warden  accompanied  him  to  the  door,  adding  his  word  of 
advice:  “ Yes,  you’d  better  do  as  he  says,  O’Reilly.  It 
will  be  better  for  you  to  save  your  own  neck,  my  boy.” 
Then  closing  the  door  on  the  visitor  and  wheeling  sharply 
round,  “ And,  damme  ! I’d  like  to  choke  you  with  my  own 
hands  if  you  do  ! ” 

Another  interesting  story  of  this  period  attaches  to  one 
of  the  very  few  of  his  early  poems  which  he  judged  worthy 
of  preservation  in  his  collected  work — “The  Old  School 
Clock.”  The  manuscripts  of  that  and  some  other  verses 
were  discovered  hidden  in  the  ventilator  of  the  cell  occu- 
pied by  a fellow -prisoner,  after  his  trial  and  deportation  to 
England.  It  fell  into  the  hands  of  Mr.  Vere  Foster,  the 
celebrated  philanthropist,  who  sent  copies  to  the  young 
poet’ s family,  and  took  such  an  especial  liking  to  ‘ 4 The  Old 
School  Clock,”  that  he  printed  it,  with  a picture  of  the  old 
and  the  new  clocks,  as  described  in  the  poem,  on  the  back 
of  the  National  School  copy-books,  which  were  manufac- 
tured by  him.  The  original  clock  was  one  which  hung  on 
the  wall  of  the  Netterville  schoolroom.  On  revisiting  home, 
while  serving  in  the  Tenth  Hussars,  O’  Reilly  missed  the  old 


20 


JOHN  BOYLE  O REILLY. 


clock,  its  place  being  usurped,  as  he  tells  in  the  poem,  by 
“ a new-fashioned  Yankee”  intruder. 

The  fellow-prisoner  was  Captain  James  Murphy,  a vete- 
ran of  the  American  Civil  War,  who  had  been  arrested, 
while  traveling  in  Ireland,  on  the  false  charge  of  being  a 
deserter  from  the  British  army.  When  Captain  Murphy 
was  transferred  from  Arbor  Hill,  his  person  and  clothing 
were  searched  rigorously,  but  nothing  contraband  was 
found,  as  he  had  hidden  the  poems,  written  in  pencil,  and 
the  following  letter  from  their  author,  in  the  ventilator  of 
his  cell : 

My  Dear  Old  Fellow  : I have  a good  many  more  bits  of  poetry  of 
my  own  manufacture,  but  they  are  of  a nature  which  would  not  serve 
you  were  they  discovered  going  to  you.  I also  was  cautioned  about 
this  courier,  but  I think  he  is  true.  If  you  get  this,  and  can  depend  on 
any  one  to  call,  I’ll  give  you  a long  letter  and  more  poems.  I wrote 
“ The  Old  Clock  ” to-day.  If  you  can  possibly  give  a copy  of  it  to  my 
father,  do.  He  or  my  brother  will  tell  you  all  about  the  “ Old  Clock,” 
etc.  I was  reminded  of  it  by  looking  at  the  prison  clock  this  morning. 

Mr.  Foster  was  compelled  to  withdraw  the  poem  from 
the  copy-books,  as  the  National  School  Board  objected  to 
sanctioning  the  production,  however  innocent,  of  a Fenian. 
Some  years  afterwards  Mr.  Foster  visited  America,  and  on 
his  return  told  the  following  interesting  sequel  to  the  inci- 
dent : 

“ On  my  arrival  at  Boston,  I called  on  the  proprietor  of 
the  Pilot . He  said  : ‘ To-morrow  morning  I shall  send  a 
young  man  from  this  office  to  call  on  you.  He  will  ques- 
tion you  as  to  the  object  of  your  present  visit  to  America, 
and  I will  print  a paragraph  which  may  be  the  means  of 
bringing  some  of  your  old  friends  about  you.’ 

“ Next  morning  a handsome  young  man  of  good  address 
called  on  me  at  my  hotel,  and  after  some  conversation,  I 
asked  him  his  name. 

“ ‘John  Boyle  O’Reilly,’  said  he. 

“ ‘Are  you  the  author  of  a little  poem  called  “The  Old 
School  Clock”  V 

“ ‘I  am,’  he  replied. 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


21 


“He  didn’t  know  that  the  poem  had  been  found,  and  a 
copy  of  it  given,  as  he  had  desired,  to  his  parents,  whom  I 
had  hunted  up  in  Dublin,  and  at  length  found  lodging  in 
the  same  street  as  myself,  or  that  the  poem  had  been  pub- 
lished. 

“I  had  but  one  copy  with  me,  which  he  was  greatly 
delighted  to  possess.  He  entertained  me  at  dinner,  and 
showed  me  all  over  the  city.” 


CHAPTER  II. 


Trial  by  Court-martial — A Prisoner’s  Rights  before  a British  Military 
Tribunal — The  Stories  of  Two  Informers— Found  Guilty  and  Sen- 
tenced to  Death— Commutation  of  Sentence — Mountjoy  Prison — 
How  O’Reilly  repaid  a Traitor. 

OH  Wednesday,  June  27,  1866,  the  eve  of  his  twenty- 
second  birthday,  his  trial  by  court-martial  began  in 
the  mess-room  of  the  Eighty- fifth  Regiment  at  Royal  Bar- 
racks. The  charge  was,  ‘‘Having  at  Dublin,  in  January, 
1866,  come  to  the  knowledge  of  an  intended  mutiny  in 
Her  Majesty’s  Forces  in  Ireland,  and  not  giving  informa- 
tion of  said  intended  mutiny  to  his  commanding  officer.” 
His  fellow  prisoners  were  Color- Sergeant  Charles  Mc- 
Carthy, Privates  Patrick  Keating,  Michael  Harrington, 
Thomas  Darragh,  and  Capt.  James  Murphy,  the  last  named 
being  the  American  soldier  who  was  charged  with  having 
deserted  from  the  British  camp  at  Aldershot  at  a time 
when,  as  he  was  happily  able  to  prove,  he  was  serving  his 
country  in  Western  Virginia. 

The  court-martial  was  constituted  as  follows : Presi- 
dent, Colonel  Sawyer,  Sixth  Dragoon  Guards.  Prose- 
cutor, Captain  Whelan,  Eighth  Regiment,  assisted  by  Mr. 
Landy,  Q.  C.  The  Judge  Advocate  was  advised  by  Mr. 
Johnson.  The  prisoner  was  defended  by  Mr.  O’Loughlen, 
advised  by  Mr.  John  Lawless,  solicitor. 

The  other  officers  of  the  court  were  : Lieut. -Col.  Maun- 
sell,  Major  Drew,  and  Capt.  Gladstone,  Seventy-fifth  Foot ; 
Capt.  Wallace  and  Lieut.  Caryvell,  Ninety-second  Gordon 
Highlanders ; Capt.  Skinner,  Military  Train ; Capt.  Kings- 
ton and  Lieut.  Garnett,  Fifth  Dragoons  ; Capt.  Bartliorp, 
Tenth  Hussars ; Capt.  Telford  and  Lieut.  Meade,  Sixtieth 
Rifles ; Capt.  Taylor,  Eighty-eighth  Foot ; Capt.  Fox  and 
Ensign  Parkinson,  Sixty-first  Foot. 

32 


23 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 

The  prisoner  pleaded  “not  guilty.”  Capt.  Whelan, 
the  prosecutor,  opened  the  case  against  Private  O’Reilly, 
as  follows  : 

4 ‘ The  enormity  of  the  offense  with  which  the  prisoner  is 
charged  is  such  that  it  is  difficult  to  find  language  by 
which  to  describe  it.  It  strikes  at  the  root  of  all  military 
discipline,  and,  if  allowed  to  escape  punishment  which  it 
entails,  would  render  her  Majesty’s  forces,  who  ought  to 
be  the  guardians  of  our  lives  and  liberty,  and  the  bulwark 
and  protection  of  the  constitution  under  which  we  live,  a 
source  of  danger  to  the  state  and  all  its  loyal  citizens  and 
subjects,  and  her  Majesty’s  faithful  subjects  would  become 
the  prey  and  victims  of  military  despotism,  licentiousness, 
and  violence.  Our  standing  army  would  then  be  a terror 
to  the  throne,  and  a curse,  not  a blessing,  to  the  commu- 
nity ; but  at  the  same  time,  as  is  the  gravity  of  the  offense, 
so  in  proportion  should  the  evidence  by  which  such  a 
charge  is  to  be  sustained,  be  carefully  and  sedulously 
weighed.  It  will  be  for  you,  gentlemen,  to  say  whether 
the  evidence  which  will  be  adduced  before  you,  leaves 
upon  your  mind  any  reasonable  doubt  of  the  prisoner’s 
guilt.” 

The  prosecutor,  in  continuation,  said  that  evidence 
would  be  laid  before  them  to  show  that  the  prisoner  was 
an  active  member  of  the  Fenian  conspiracy,  and  that  he 
had  endeavored  to  induce  other  soldiers  to  join  it. 

The  first  witness  called  was  Lance-Corporal  Fitz- 
gerald, Tenth  Hussars.  He  said : 

I know  the  prisoner.  I know  Hoey’s  public  house  in  Bridgeport 
Street.  I was  in  it  in  the  month  of  November,  1865,  with  the  prisoner. 
He  brought  me  there.  I was  introduced  by  the  prisoner  to  a man 
named  Devoy.  There  were  then  present,  Tierney,  Rorreson,  Bergin, 
and  Sinclair  of  the  Tenth  Hussars. 

Prosecutor.  Was  there  any  conversation  in  presence  of  the  pris- 
oner ? If  so,  state  what  it  was. 

Prisoner.  I object,  sir,  to  that  question.  It  relates  to  a conversa- 
tion previous  to  the  date  of  the  charge,  and  can  have  no  reference  to  it. 

The  court  ruled  that  the  evidence  was  admissible,  and  the  question 
was  put. 


24 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


Witness.  Prisoner  introduced  me  to  Devoy  and  said  : “ This  is  Cor- 
poral Fitzgerald,”  and  I spoke  to  him.  Devoy  said  O’Reilly  had  spoken 
to  him  several  times  about  me,  and  said  he  should  like  to  get  me.  We 
three  sat  down  together  and  I asked  Devoy  who  was  carrying  on  this 
affair.  He  said  Stephens.  I asked,  were  there  any  arms  or  ammunition. 
He  said  there  was,  and  they  were  getting  lots  every  day  from  America. 
I asked  who  were  to  be  their  officers.  He  said  there  would  be  plenty 
of  officers.  He  said  it  was  so  carried  on  that  privates  did  not  know 
their  non-commissioned  officers,  nor  they  their  officers.  Devoy  then 
left  the  room  and  the  prisoner  went  after  him.  After  a few  minutes 
prisoner  came  and  told  me  that  Devoy  wanted  to  speak  to  me.  I went 
down  to  the  yard  and  found  Devoy  there.  He  said,  ‘ ‘ I suppose  O’Reilly 
has  told  you  what  I want  with  you.” 

. Prisoner.  I respectfully  object,  sir.  What  the  witness  now  states 
to  have  taken  place,  was  not  in  my  presence. 

Court  decided  that  the  answer  should  be  given. 

Witness.  I said  that  I did  not  know.  He  said  that  it  was  for  the 
purpose  of  joining  them  he  wanted  me,  and  that  there  was  an  oath 
necessary  to  be  taken.  I said  I would  not  take  the  oath,  and  he  then 
said  that  he  would  not  trust  any  man  that  did  not  take  the  oath.  We 
then  returned  upstairs.  Nothing  further  took  place. 

President.  What  did  you  mean  by  using  the  words,  “This  busi- 
ness ” ? 

Witness.  I meant  the  Fenian  conspiracy.  When  I went  upstairs 
I saw  the  prisoner,  who  bade  me  good-night.  The  next  time  I saw  him 
was  one  evening  I met  him  in  town  coming  from  the  barracks.  Some 
arrests  took  place  that  day,  and  I said,  ‘ ‘ This  business  is  getting 
serious.”  He  said  it  was,  and  that  my  name  had  been  mentioned  at  a 
meeting  a few  nights  before.  I asked  what  meeting,  and  he  said  a 
military  meeting.  I asked  him  who  mentioned  my  name,  and  he  said 
he  did  not  know  exactly,  but  that  it  was  a man  of  the  Fifth  Dragoon 
Guards.  He  added,  “ If  you  come  home  to-night  I will  take  you  to  a 
similar  meeting.”  I gave  him  no  decided  answer.  I afterwards  met 
him  in  the  barracks.  This  all  occurred  before  the  meeting  at  Hoey’s,  of 
which  I stated.  When  I met  him  in  the  barracks  he  asked  me  was  I 
going  out.  I replied  that  I was.  He  said,  “Will  you  meet  me  at  the 
sign  of  the  ‘ Two  Soldiers  ’ ? ” I said  yes,  and  went  there  and  waited 
until  O’Reilly  came  in.  He  called  for  some  drink,  and  after  we  drank 
we  left  the  house,  but  came  back  again  to  get  my  gloves,  and  he  said, 
“ I want  to  introduce  you  to  a person.”  I said  that  I had  no  time  and 
should  go,  but  he  said,  “ I shall  not  detain  you  a minute.”  I then  went 
with  him  to  Hoey’s  public  house.  It  was  on  that  occasion  that  I had 
the  interview  with  Devoy  of  which  I have  given  evidence. 

Here  the  court  adjourned  for  half  an  hour. 

On  its  reassembling  Corporal  Fitzgerald  continued  ids  testimony  : 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


25 


The  conversation  of  which  I have  last  spoken  took  place  either 
toward  the  end  of  November  or  the  beginning  of  December,  1865. 
Prisoner  never  told  me  the  object  of  the  military  meetings  of  which  he 
spoke.  I know  Pilsworth’s  public  house,  James’s  Street.  I met  prisoner 
in  that  house  on  the  13th  of  January,  1866.  There  were  with  him 
Denny,  Mullarchy,  Hood,  Loftus,  Crosby,  and  Sinclair,  all  Tenth  Hus- 
sars, and  two  deserters  from  Fifth  Dragoon  Guards.  They  were  in 
civilian  clothes.  There  was  a man  named  Williams  present,  and  also 
Devoy.  On  that  occasion  I had  no  conversation  with  O’Reilly,  nor 
with  any  other  person  in  his  hearing.  I never  had  any  further  conver- 
sation with  the  prisoner  about  Fenianism. 

To  the  Court : 

Prisoner  never  asked  me  the  result  of  my  conversation  with  Devoy. 

On  cross-examination  by  the  prisoner,  witness  said  : 

When  I was  in  Hoey’s  public  house  there  were  no  soldiers  of  any 
other  regiment  but  the  Tenth  Hussars  present.  That  was  the  only 
time  I met  the  prisoner  at  Hoey’s.  It  was  a few  days  after  the  con- 
versation which  took  place  when  I met  the  prisoner  coming  from  the 
barracks,  that  he  introduced  me  to  Devoy.  I am  twelve  years  in  the 
army.  The  prisoner  was  in  the  army  only  three  years. 

To  the  Court : 

I made  no  report  to  my  commanding  officer  of  my  conversation  with 
Devoy  or  the  other  meeting  at  Pilsworth’s.  I never  took  the  Fenian 
oath. 

The  next  witness,  Private  McDonald,  Tenth  Hussars,  testified  : 

I know  Pilsworth’s  house.  I was  there  about  Christmas  last  with 
the  prisoner.  I went  with  him  to  the  house.  There  were  other  per- 
sons there  but  I cannot  say  who  they  were.  There  were  some  civilians, 
but  I did  not  know  their  names.  Since  then  I heard  that  Devoy  was 
one  of  them.  The  prisoner  did  not  introduce  me  to  any  one  on  that 
occasion.  Any  drink  the  soldiers  had  they  paid  for  themselves.  There 
was  no  conversation  relating  to  Fenianism  in  the  presence  of  the 
prisoner. 

Here  the  President  deemed  it  advisable  to  give  the  wit- 
ness a hint  that  his  evidence  was  not  satisfactory. 

President.  Remember  that  you  are  on  your  oath. 

Witness.  Prisoner  was  sitting  near  me  for  a quarter  of  an  hour  or 
more  ; he  was  not  far  away  from  me.  He  was  sitting  alongside  me, 
close  as  one  person  sits  to  another.  I knew  prisoner  before  that  night. 

I had  some  conversation  with  O’Reilly  while  he  was  sitting  by  me.  I 
cannot  now  tell  what  it  was  about,  but  it  was  not  about  Fenianism. 

Devoy  was  not  sitting  near  me  that  night;  he  was  sitting  at  the  same 
table,  but  I did  not  speak  to  him,  nor  he  to  me.  I know  Fortune’s 


26 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


public  house  in  Golden  Lane.  I have  been  once  in  that  house  with 
O’Reilly,  but  I cannot  say  in  what  month.  It  was  after  Christmas,  I 
think.  There  were  some  civilians  and  soldiers  there  ; the  soldiers  were 
infantry  men.  Devoy  was  one  of  the  civilians,  but  I knew  no  one 
else’s  name. 

Here  the  President  again  interjected  a threatening  hint. 

President . Is  it  impossible  to  know  an  infantry  man’s  name  ? 

Witness.  I did  not  know  their  names. 

President.  What  regiments  did  they  belong  to  ? 

Witness.  Some  of  Sixty -first,  some  of  Eighty-seventh;  there  were  no 
other  cavalrymen  but  prisoner  and  myself.  The  prisoner  did  not 
introduce  me  to  any  one  on  that  occasion.  We  were  in  Fortune’s  for 
an  hour  and  a half.  I had  no  conversation  with  the  prisoner  on  that 
occasion  ; the  people  who  were  there  were  talking  to  themselves  and 
I did  not  hear  any  conversation  that  night.  Some  of  the  civilians 
treated  me  to  some  drink.  Devoy  treated  both  me  and  the  prisoner. 
I have  met  a man  known  by  the  name  of  Davis.  He  was  not  in 
Fortune’s  that  night.  Devoy,  prisoner,  and  myself  all  drank  together 
that  night.  After  leaving  Fortune’s  we  went  to  Doyle’s  public  house. 
Devoy  came  with  two  other  civilians  and  some  infantry  soldiers.  I 
was  in  Doyle’s  from  half-past  eight  until  after  nine.  In  Doyle’s  we 
were  again  treated  to  drink  by  the  civilians  and  by  Devoy  ; it  was  he 
asked  us  to  go  there.  O’Reilly  was  in  the  room  when  he  asked  me  to 
do  so,  but  I could  not  say  how  near  he  was  to  us  when  Devoy  was 
speaking.  I think  prisoner  might  have  heard  Devoy  speaking.  When 
Devoy  asked  us  to  go  to  Doyle’s  he  said  it  was  quieter  than  Fortune’s. 
In  Doyle’s  we  were  not  exactly  sitting  together,  there  were  some  civil- 
ians between  me  and  Devoy.  I do  not  know  their  names. 

Here  the  Court  adjourned  to  next  morning. 

McDonald’s  examination  resumed  : 

When  I was  in  Doyle’s,  prisoner  was  not  sitting  ; he  was  standing 
between  me  and  Devoy.  He  was  in  front  of  me.  I had  no  conver- 
sation with  the  prisoner  or  with  any  person  in  his  hearing.  I was  with 
the  prisoner  in  Barclay’s  public  house  about  a fortnight  after  I was  in 
Doyle’s  with  him.  There  were  some  soldiers  and  civilians  there. 
Devoy  was  there.  I don’t  know  any  other  names,  but  I know  their 
faces.  They  were  the  same  men  who  had  been  at  Doyle’s.  We 
remained  at  Barclay’s  from  seven  till  nine  o’clock.  On  that  occasion  I 
had  no  conversation  with  the  prisoner,  I had  no  conversation  in  pres- 
ence of  prisoner.  I went  to  Barclay’s  with  John  O’Reilly.  The  next 
public  house  I was  in  with  him  was  Hoey’s,  in  Bridgeport  Street,  about 
a week  after.  I went  there  with  prisoner.  Same  civilians  were  there 
that  I met  before,  and  some  infantry  soldiers.  Prisoner  did  not  remain ; 
he  went  away  after  I went  into  the  house.  I had  no  conversation  with 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


27 


O’Reilly  that  night.  I afterwards,  in  the  same  month,  went  with 
prisoner  to  Bergin’s,  James’s  Street ; remained  there  from  half-past  eight 
to  quarter-past  nine  ; did  not  know  any  persons  present,  they  were  all 
strangers  ; there  were  four  infantry  soldiers,  one  of  them,  I think,  of 
the  Fifty-third.  Prisoner  was  there  the  whole  time  ; there  was  no  con- 
versation between  prisoner  and  those  present.  There  was  singing. 

President.  No  conversation  ! 

Witness.  None. 

President.  Public  houses  must  be  mortal  slow  places  according  to 
your  account. 

Witness.  Singing  was  in  presence  and  hearing  of  prisoner.  Pris- 
oner did  not  join  in  the  singing  ; he  was  sitting  down  ; we  were  both 
drinking  some  beer.  Some  civilians  asked  us  to  drink,  but  we  treated 
ourselves.  Prisoner  told  me  that  he  belonged  to  the  Fenian  brother- 
hood in  Cahir.  He  told  me  so  in  conversation  as  we  were  coming 
down  from  Island  Bridge  Barracks,  in  April,  twelve  months  ago. 
Cross-examined  by  Prisoner : 

At  Pilsworth’s  there  were  three  or  four  sitting  at  the  same  table 
with  us  and  Devoy.  When  I said  there  was  no  conversation  between 
me  and  the  prisoner  at  Fortune’s  I meant  no  conversation  about 
Fenianism.  When  Devoy  asked  me  to  go  to  Doyle’s,  prisoner  might 
not  have  heard  him  do  so.  We  went  upstairs  at  Barclay’s.  When  I said 
I had  no  conversation  with  the  prisoner  at  Hoey’s,  I meant  none  about 
Fenianism.  I think  I saw  Corporal  Fitzgerald  at  Hoey’s  one  night, 
but  I can’t  tell  the  date.  I never  was  in  company  with  Fitzgerald  at 
Hoey’s  public  house  ; it  is  over  twelve  months  and  more  since  the 
Tenth  Hussars  were  quartered  in  Cahir  ; I had  no  conversation  with 
prisoner  in  Pilsworth’s  about  Fenianism.  Strange  civilians  often  asked 
me  to  take  a drink  in  public  houses.  I never  was  a Fenian.  The 
Tenth  Hussars  were  quartered  in  Cahir  for  nine  months. 

To  the  Court : 

The  prisoner  told  me  who  Devoy  was  in  Pilsworth’s.  I have  known 
the  prisoner  since  he  enlisted,  three  years  ago.  It  was  in  Pilsworth’s  I 
met  the  man  called  Davis,  that  was  in  January  ; I never  saw  him 
before  or  since.  I cannot  recollect  the  subjects  of  which  we  talked  in 
the  various  public  houses. 

To  the  Prisoner : 

Was  not  in  Hoey’s  when  Fitzgerald  was  there.  I cannot  tell  pris- 
oner’s motive  in  asking  me  to  go  to  the  various  public  houses  with  him. 
In  Fortune’s  there  were  civilians  present.  We  left  it  to  go  to  Doyle’s,  as 
we  did  not  like  to  talk  before  them.  There  was  nobody  in  the  room  at 
Doyle’s  when  we  went  in.  There  were  seven  or  eight  of  us  came  from 
Fortune’s  to  Doyle’s.  I do  not  know  who  the  civilians  were  that  were 
left  behind. 


28 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


President.  Why  were  you  so  confidential  with  some  of  the  civilians 
you  met  at  Fortune’s  for  the  first  time,  and  not  with  all  ? And  what 
was  the  mysterious  conversation  about  ? 

Witness.  It  was  the  civilians  proposed  to  go  to  Doyle’s  and  it  was 
they  who  held  the  conversation.  I do  not  remember  any  of  the  songs 
that  were  sung  at  Bergin’s.  Davis  was  a low-sized  man  whose  hair  was 
cut  like  a soldier’s.  When  the  prisoner  told  me  to  go  to  the  public 
houses  at  night,  he  used  to  say,  “ Go  to  such  a house  and  you  will  meet 
John  there,  and  tell  him  I am  on  duty.” 

President.  Who  was  John  ? 

Witness.  Devoy. 

President.  Then  Devoy  was  a great  friend  of  the  prisoner  ? 

Witness.  He  appeared  to  be. 

President.  Now  answer  a direct  question  : Were  the  songs  sung 
Fenian  songs  ? 

Witness.  No,  sir  ; they  were  not. 

Prisoner.  Were  the  songs  chiefly  love  songs  ? 

Witness.  I don’t  know. 

Prisoner.  Did  I ever  tell  you  Devoy  was  an  old  friend  of  my 
family  ? 

Witness.  No,  he  did  not.  John  O’Reilly  never  spoke  to  me  about 
Fenianism,  and  I never  heard  Fenian  songs  in  his  company. 

President . Recollect  what  you  say  : Did  you  not  swear  that  pris- 
oner told  you  he  was  a Fenian  ? 

Witness.  He  said  he  was  one  at  Cahir. 

President.  How  do  you  know  what  a Fenian  song  is  ? 

Witness.  I don’t  know.  I suppose  they  are  Irish  songs. 

Prisoner.  Did  you  not  state  to  the  President  that  I told  you  I had 
been  a member  of  the  Fenian  Brotherhood  while  I was  at  Cahir  ? 

Witness.  Yes,  that  you  had  been  a Fenian  at  Cahir. 

The  unprejudiced  reader,  accustomed  to  the  rigid  im- 
partiality of  an  American  court,  will  be  surprised  at  the 
hardly  concealed  hostility  of  this  court-martial  president 
toward  his  prisoner.  Private  MacDonald’s  testimony  is  so 
favorable  to  the  accused  that  it  does  not  please  the  Court 
at  all.  The  President  accordingly  reminds  him  that  he  is 
“under  oath,”  sneers  at  his  refusal  to  “identify”  men 
whom  he  does  not  know,  and  makes  it  generally  clear  to 
succeeding  witnesses  that  evidence  tending  to  prove  the 
prisoner’s  innocence- is  not  of  the  kind  wanted  in  that 
court. 

The  next  witness  was  Private  Dennis  Denny,  Tenth  Hussars  : 

I remember  the  evening  of  the  1st  January,  last.  I was  in  the  “Two 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


29 


Soldiers  ” public  house  with  the  prisoner.  He  told  me  that  if  I went 
to  Hoey’s  with  him  he  would  show  me  the  finest  set  of  Irishmen  I 
ever  saw  in  my  life.  We  went  there  and  found  a number  of  civilians 
assembled.  The  prisoner,  after  some  time,  took  me  out  of  the  room  and 
told  me  that  the  Fenians  were  going  to  beat  the  English  army  and 
make  this  country  their  own.  He  ask  me  to  take  an  oath  to  join  the 
Fenians.  I answered  that  I had  already  taken  an  oath  to  serve  my  queen 
and  country  and  that  was  enough  for  me.  I then  came  down  and  went 
into  the  yard  and  he  again  asked  me  to  be  a Fenian.  I told  him  no. 
He  then  went  away  and  a civilian  came  and  said — 

Prisoner.  I object  to  anything  being  put  in  evidence  relative  to  a 
Conversation  at  which  I was  not  present. 

Court  adjourned  for  half  an  hour  to  consider  the  objection. 

On  its  reassembling,  Private  Denny  continued  : 

After  returning  upstairs  prisoner  was  there  and  I saw  him.  I had 
no  conversation  with  him.  I met  O’Reilly  in  Island  Bridge  Barracks 
about  a week  before  I was  in  Hoey’s  with  him.  I had  then  no  conver- 
sation with  him. 

Cross-examined  by  Prisoner : 

I am  eight  years  in  the  Tenth  Hussars.  I had  spoken  before  that 
evening  with  the  prisoner,  but  nothing  about  Fenianism.  I cannot  say 
at  what  period  of  the  day  on  the  first  of  January  this  took  place,  but 
it  was  in  the  evening,  about  seven  or  eight,  I think.  There  was  nobody 
but  the  prisoner  with  me  when  I went  to  Hoey’s.  Lance-Corporal 
Fitzgerald  was  not  in  our  company.  I never,  so  far  as  I know,  was  in 
Fitzgerald’s  company  at  Hoey7s.  We  went  back  to  the  “Two  Soldiers  ” 
that  evening  by  ourselves.  We  went  back  to  have  a glass  of  beer.  I 
had  been  drinking  before  that  evening.  I was  arrested  at  Island  Bridge 
Barracks  and  confined  in  the  regiment  cells  at  Richmond  Barracks.  I 
was  taken  on  duty  to  Dublin  Castle  in  aid  of  the  civil  power. 

Prisoner  withdrew  this  last  question. 

Witness.  I made  no  report  to  my  superior  officers  of  what  took  place 
at  Hoey’s  before  my  arrest.  I was  arrested  on  the  5th  of  March.  I 
made  a statement  of  what  took  place  before  I was  transferred  to  Rich- 
mond barracks.  I was  arrested  on  a charge  of  Fenianism  and  was  for 
two  days  in  the  cells  at  Island  Bridge,  during  which  time  I was  visited 
by  Provost-Sergeant  Del  worth.  He  did  not  tell  me  what  I was  charged 
with.  It  was  told  to  me  by  my  commanding  officer  on  5th  of  March, 
when  I was  arrested.  I did  not  know  O’Reilly  was  arrested  until  he 
spoke  to  me  through  the  wall  of  the  cells ; that  was  the  first  time  I knew 
he  was  arrested.  Sergeant  Delworth  came  to  visit  me,  but  I cannot  say 
if  it  was  before  then  that  prisoner  spoke  through  the  wall  to  me.  I was 
only  once  at  Hoey’s  public  house  that  I am  aware  of — that  was  on  1st 
of  January,  1866.  I made  no  statement  to  the  provost  sergeant  at  all. 


30 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY, 

I made  none  while  in  the  cells.  I swear  that  the  conversation  at  Hoey’s 
took  place  on  1st  January,  1866. 

By  the  Court : 

Before  prisoner  told  you  that  the  Fenians  were  going  to  beat  the 
English  army  out  of  the  country  and  make  it  free,  had  there  been  no 
conversation  about  Fenianism  in  presence  of  the  prisoner  ? 

Witness.  No. 

President.  What  reason  had  you  for  not  reporting  this  conversa- 
tion ? 

Witness.  I did  not  wish  to  get  myself  or  any  one  else  into  trouble 
by  doing  so. 

The  next  witness  was  Private  John  Smith,  Tenth  Hussars  : 

I was  in  Hoey’s  with  prisoner  some  time  after  Christmas,  about  1st 
January,  1866.  I went  there  by  myself ; no  one  took  me.  When  I went 
there  I was  directed  into  a room  where  I saw  the  prisoner.  Room  was 
full  of  soldiers  playing  cards.  There  were  some  civilians  there,  but  I 
knew  none  of  them  but  O’Reilly.  I since  learnt  that  a man  named 
Doyle,  of  the  Sixty-first,  was  there.  I saw  him  just  now  outside  this 
room.  Prisoner  introduced  me  as  a friend  to  a civilian. 

Here  Court  adjourned  to  reassemble  next  morning,  when  Private 
Smith  continued  his  evidence  : 

I left  the  room  with  the  civilian  and  he  spoke  to  me. 

The  prisoner  objected  to  the  question  and  the  objection  was  allowed. 

Witness.  I had  some  conversation  with  the  civilian,  but  I do  not 
know  if  the  prisoner  was  near  enough  to  hear  it.  After  I left  the  room 
with  the  prisoner  he  said  the  movement  had  been  going  on  some  time, 
but  he  did  not  say  what  movement.  After  that  he  returned  into  the 
room,  and  when  I went  back  I found  him  there.  There  was  no  con- 
versation louder  than  your  breath  among  those  who  were  in  the 
room.  When  I left  the  room  with  the  civilian  he  asked  me  to  do  so. 
When  I left  the  room  I went  to  the  back  of  the  house  with  him,  but  the 
prisoner  did  not  come  out  at  all  while  we  were  there.  It  was  on  the 
lobby  that  the  prisoner  told  me  that  he  had  known  of  the  movement 
for  some  time.  That  was  said  before  I went  into  the  yard  with  the 
civilian.  There  was  no  one  else  but  the  civilian  present  at  the  time 
with  us.  The  observation  was  made  in  the  course  of  conversation 
between  me  and  the  civilian.  We  were  all  standing  on  the  lobby  at 
the  time. 

President.  What  was  the  conversation  about,  at  the  time  the  ob- 
servation was  made  ? 

Prisoner.  I beg  to  object  to  that  question,  sir.  The  witness  lias 
already  said  that  he  cannot  say  whether  I heard  the  conversation  or 
not. 

The  Judge- Advocate  said  that  the  question  was  a legal  one.  The 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


31 


prisoner  had  introduced  the  civilian  to  the  witness  and  the  conversation 
took  place  when  the  three  were  standing  within  a yard  of  one  another. 
The  observation  was  part  of  the  conversation. 

Witness.  I cannot  say  what  the  conversation  was  about.  It  was 
the  civilian  that  asked  me  to  go  down  to  the  yard.  I don’t  know 
whether  prisoner  left  before  he  asked  me  to  go.  About  three  days 
after,  I met  the  prisoner  at  Walshe’s  public  house.  No  one  took  me 
there.  The  house  was  full  of  soldiers.  I did  not  know  any  of  the 
civilians,  but  there  were  some  men  of  my  regiment  there. 

President.  Do  you  know  the  names  of  any  of  the  soldiers  ? 

Witness.  I did,  but  I cannot  now  recollect  what  their  names 
were. 

Prisoner.  I think  that  the  witness  said,  sir,  that  Walshe’s  is  a sing- 
ing saloon. 

President.  Is  it  a public  house  or  a music  hall  exclusively  ? 

Witness.  It  is  both  ; none  of  the  civilians  present  had  been  in  Hoey’s 
when  I was  there  ; the  prisoner  told  me  that  he  wanted  to  see  me  the 
next  night  at  Pilsworth’s  public  house  ; he  said  that  he  wanted  to  see 
some  friends  and  to  bring  me  to  them  ; I met  him  as  he  appointed  ; 
there  were  two  of  the  Sixty-first  there  when  we  got  to  Pilsworth’s, 
neither  of  whose  names  I know  ; there  was  nobody  else  there  during  the 
time  we  stopped  ; the  prisoner  and  I had  some  conversation,  but  I for- 
get what  it  was  ; we  left  the  room  shortly  after  ; the  only  conversation 
that  took  place  was  that  we  asked  each  other  to  drink  ; O’Reilly  came 
away  with  me,  and  we  went  to  Hoey’s  ; it  was  the  prisoner  who  asked 
me  to  go  there  ; he  said,  “ Perhaps  we  will  meet  the  friends  who 
promised  to  meet  us  at  Pilsworth’s  he  told  me  that  some  of  them  were 
the  same  that  we  had  to  meet  at  Hoey’s  before  ; on  our  way  he  spoke 
about  different  men  who  used  to  meet  him  at  Hoey’s  ; he  told 
me  that  those  he  was  in  the  habit  of  meeting  there  were  Fenian 
agents,  and  men  from  America,  who  had  been  sent  here  to  carry  on 
business  ; that  is  the  purport  of  what  the  prisoner  said  ; nothing  else 
that  I can  recollect  passed  between  us  ; the  prisoner  told  me  the  business 
the  American  agents  came  to  carry  on  ; Fenian  business,  he  said,  of 
course. 

President.  Why,  “of  course”  ? You  give  us  credit  for  knowing 
more  than  we  do. 

Witness.  When  we  got  to  Hoey’s  we  met  the  same  civilian  that  we 
had  met  there  before,  and  some  more  strangers  ; we  stayed  in  Hoey’s 
about  three-quarters  of  an  hour  ; I had  no  conversation  there  with  the 
prisoner  ; we  separated,  I to  play  cards  and  he  to  talk  with  some 
civilians  ; there  was  none  but  ordinary  conversation  going  on  ; when 
we  left  Hoey’s  we  went  back  to  Pilsworth’s  ; a civilian  asked  us  both  to 
go  to  Pilsworth’s  along  with  some  other  soldiers  ; some  civilians  were 
there,  Americans,  I think  ; I cannot  remember  what  the  conversation 


32 


JOHN  BOYLE  o’ REILLY. 


was  about  ; it  was  no  louder  than  a whisper  ; when  we  left  we  called 
into  a public  house  near  the  barracks  ; we  had  some  talk  about  the 
civilians  we  had  left. 

President.  It  is  not  about  the  civilians  you  are  asked,  but  about  the 
conversation. 

V/itness.  I met  prisoner  without  any  appointment  in  Barclay’s 
public  house  in  James’s  Street  in  about  a week  ; there  were  some  sol- 
diers and  civilians  there.  Among  the  soldiers  was  Private  Foley,  of 
the  Fifth  Dragoon  Guards.  The  civilians  were  those  I had  met  at 
Hoey’s.  I had  no  conversation  with  the  prisoner.  I left  Barclay’s  first 
that  night.  At  Barclay’s  the  prisoner  was  sitting  at  a table  with  some 
soldiers  and  civilians.  I had  seen  some  of  the  civilians  before  at  Hoey’s, 
I do  not  know  the  names  of  the  civilians  I met  at  Hoey’s.  The  prisoner 
never  told  me  the  object  of  ‘ ‘ the  movement.  ” O’Reilly  never  spoke  to 
me  about  “the  movement,”  except  what  he  said  at  Pilsworth’s  and  at 
Hoey’s. 

Cross-examined  by  the  Prisoner  : 

The  night  I went  to  Hoey’s  and  Pilsworth’s  was,  I think,  in  January. 
I cannot  say  what  time  in  January.  It  might  have  been  in  February. 
I cannot  say.  I know  Lance-Corporal  Fitzgerald  ; he  is  in  my  troop. 
1 know  Private  Denny,  Tenth  Hussars  ; he  is  in  my  troop.  I cannot 
say  if  I was  in  his  company  on  New  Year’s  night ; I spent  that  night 
partly  in  Mount  Pleasant  Square  and  partly  at  the  ‘ ‘ Bleeding  House  ” 
in  Camden  Lane.  I am  not  able  to  say  whether  I ever  saw  Denny  at 
Hoey’s.  I was  speaking  to  him  fifteen  minutes  ago  ; I am  not  able  to 
say  if  I spoke  to  him  to-day  or  yesterday,  about  the  trial  ; I did  speak 
to  him  about  it ; I have  spoken  to  him  about  his  evidence  or  he  to  me. 
I don’t  know  which.  It  was  after  I read  the  paper  and  I don’t  think 
any  one  heard  us. 

Prisoner.  Were  you  by  yourself  ? ...  . If  the  Deputy  Judge 
Advocate  would  be  kind  enough  to  read  the  last  two  questions  and 
replies. 

The  questions  and  replies  were  read  over. 

Prisoner.  Do  you  not  know  whether  you  and  Denny  were  by  your- 
selves ? 

President.  You  must  know,  in  a matter  that  only  occurred  fifteen 
minutes  ago. 

Witness.  I only  spoke  to  him  as  we  were  coming  across  here  at  two 
o’clock.  When  I was  speaking  to  Denny,  there  were  some  other  men 
in  the  room,  but  I cannot  say  if  we  were  by  ourselves. 

President.  That  makes  the  thing  worse.  When  did  you  read  the 
newspaper — this  morning  ? Did  you  talk  to  Denny  then  about  the 
evidence  ? 

Witness.  About  nine  o’clock,  when  I was  preparing  to  come  here, 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


83 


I might  have  spoken  to  him.  The  paper  was  read.  I spoke  to  him  at 
the  bottom  of  the  stairs.  There  were  other  men  in  the  room  at  the  time. 
I again  spoke  to  him  when  coming  here  at  two  o’clock.  I can  read 
‘ ‘ some  ” print,  but  not  writing.  I have  never  tried  to  read  a paper.  It 
was  Denny  who  read  the  paper  this  morning ; he  read  it  out  for  me. 

President.  What  paper  was  it  ? 

Witness.  The  paper  in  Sackville  Street. 

President.  That  is  the  Irish  Times. 

Capt.  Whelan.  Oh  no,  it  is  the  Freeman’s  Journal ! 

Witness.  When  Denny  read  the  paper,  there  were  two  men  pres- 
ent ; it  was  after  this  we  had  the  conversation  about  the  evidence. 

Here  the  court  adjourned,  and  having  reconvened  on  the  following 
day,  Private  Dennis  Denny  was  recalled  and  examined  relative  to  a 
statement  made  by  Private  Smith,  the  prisoner’s  witness,  that  they  had 
a conversation  the  previous  day  concerning  the  evidence  he  had  given. 

Witness.  I had  no  conversation  yesterday  about  the  evidence  with 
Private  Smith. 

To  the  Prosecutor: 

I was  not  aware  that  I read  the  paper  yesterday  in  presence  of 
Smith.  He  may  have  been  there  when  I was  reading  it.  I have  no 
knowledge  of  having  had  any  conversation  with  anybody  about  the 
evidence  of  Smith.  Before  I was  recalled  into  court  I had  no  conversa- 
tion with  any  one  relative  to  the  evidence  I had  given  previously.  I 
am  not  aware  that  I had  any  conversation  with  Private  Smith  with 
reference  to  my  evidence.  I read  a paper  yesterday  morning.  I would 
not  swear  what  men  were  present.  I cannot  say  if  Smith  was  in  the 
room  when  I read  it. 

To  the  President : 

I do  not  recollect  a man  who  was  in  the  room. 

Prisoner.  With  your  leave,  sir,  I would  wish  to  ask  Private  Denny 
a few  questions  in  the  absence  of  Private  Smith. 

President.  Leave  the  room,  Smith. 

Private  Denny  to  Prisoner.  I did  not  buy  the  paper  that  I read. 
I took  it  out  of  Private  Robert  Good’s  bed. 

President.  We  have  decided,  prisoner,  not  to  put  these  questions 
yet.  You  will  reserve  them. 

Prisoner.  Very  well,  sir. 

President  (to  witness).  Were  there  any  persons  in  the  room  ? 

Witness.  Four  or  five. 

President.  Were  you  reading  aloud  ? 

Witness.  No,  sir  ; I cannot  read  aloud,  because  I have  to  spell  the 
words. 

President.  Have  you  had  no  conversation  with  any  one  about 
Smith  since  you  read  the  paper  ? 


34 


JOHN  BOYLE  O REILLY. 


Witness.  I spoke  to  Lance-Corporal  Fitzgerald,  I now  recollect, 
about  Smith. 

President.  What  did  you  say  about  him  ? 

Witness.  I was  talking  to  him  about  the  time  Smith  and  I were 
arrested.  He  might  have  been  in  the  room  when  the  paper  was  read- 
ing, but  no  one  read  aloud  when  I was  in  the  room. 

President.  What  did  you  and  Smith  talk  about  yesterday  ? 

Witness.  I did  not  talk  to  him  yesterday,  unless  I might  have 
spoken  to  him  outside  the  door,  while  we  were  waiting. 

President.  If  Private  Smith  swore  yesterday  that  you  had  told  him 
your  previous  evidence,  would  it  be  true  ? 

Witness.  No,  sir. 

Private  Smith  {recalled).  The  two  Sixty-first  men  we  met  at  Pils- 
worth’s  did  not  come  to  Hoey’s.  Private  Denny  never  spoke  to  me 
about  Fenianism.  I have  often  played  cards  for  drink  in  public 
houses.  When  the  prisoner  introduced  me  to  the  civilian  at  Hoey’s  it 
was  as  a friend  of  his  in  the  regiment.  My  regiment  turned  out  for 
the  field  yesterday  at  half -past  seven.  It  was  about  nine  o’clock  when 
Denny  made  out  the  paper  for  me. 

Court.  If  Denny  swore  that  he  did  not  read  the  paper  aloud,  would 
he  be  swearing  what  was  true  ? 

Witness.  I say  again  that  Denny  read  the  paper  aloud ; if  he  did 
not  I could  not  hear  him. 

President.  You  must  answer  “Yes  or  no.” 

Witness.  It  would  not  be  true,  sir. 

To  the  Court : 

I have  heard  Denny  reading  the  newspaper  aloud  on  other  occa- 
sions ; I do  not  know  what  part  of  the  paper  Denny  read,  but  it  was 
about  this  trial;  when  speaking  to  Denny  yesterday  it  was  about 
the  trial ; about  his  evidence  and  mine ; when  the  prisoner  introduced 
me  to  the  civilian  at  Hoey’s,  he  merely  said  that  I was  a friend  of  his ; 
I cannot  repeat  the  precise  words  used  in  introducing  me ; Denny  and  I 
had  only  a few  words  about  this  trial  when  we  spoke  together  yesterday. 

President.  The  civilians  to  whom  you  were  introduced  you  said  yes- 
terday were  Fenian  agents;  did  they  ever  ask  you  to  become  a Fenian  ? 

Witness.  They  did . 

President.  As  a rule  did  you  always  pay  for  your  drink  or  were  you 
treated  ? 

Witness.  As  a rule  I was  treated. 

President.  Were  those  civilians  that  you  met  Americans  and 
Fenians  ? 

Witness.  I was  told  so. 

President.  What  were  they  talking  about  when  the  prisoner  spoke 
of  the  movement  ? 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


35 


Witness.  About  the  Fenians. 

President.  You  said  that  a civilian  asked  you  to  go  down  to  the 
yard  at  Hoey’s  house ; did  he  assign  any  reason  ? 

Witness.  He  asked  me  to  go  with  him ; and  said  that  he  belonged 
to  the  Fenians,  and  wished  me  to  join  them. 

President.  Did  you  notice  at  any  time  that  the  prisoner  had  more 
money  than  you  would  expect  a soldier  to  have  ? 

Witness.  No. 

President.  Did  you  take  the  Fenian  oath  ? 

Witness.  I did  not ; I never  was  asked  to  take  an  oath  or  join  the 
Fenians  in  the  prisoner’s  hearing. 

Prosecutor.  Was  it  after  your  interview  with  the  prisoner  on  the 
lobby  at  Hoey’s  that  you  were  asked  to  take  the  oath  ? 

Witness.  It  was. 

Colonel  Baker,  Tenth  Hussars,  being  sworn,  testified  : I know 
the  prisoner.  He  never  gave  me  any  information  of  an  intended  mu- 
tiny in  her  Majesty’s  force  in  Ireland. 

Prisoner.  Did  any  private  of  the  Tenth  communicate  with  you  in 
reference  to  an  intended  mutiny,  before  the  first  of  March  ? 

Col.  Baker.  No. 

Prisoner.  What  character  do  I bear  in  the  regiment  ? 

Witness.  A good  character. 

Colonel  Cass,  sworn  and  examined.  I never  received  information 
from  the  prisoner  with  reference  to  an  intended  mutiny.  I believe  his 
character  is  good. 

Head  Constable  Talbot,  the  notorious  informer,  was  the 
next  witness.  He  was  not  called  upon  to  furnish  evidence 
of  the  prisoner’ s direct  complicity  in  the  conspiracy,  but 
only  of  the  fact  that  a conspiracy  existed.  He  had  testified 
on  the  trial  of  Color- Sergeant  McCarthy,  that  the  latter  had 
agreed  to  furnish  the  Fenians  with  countersigns,  barrack 
and  magazine  keys,  maps  and  plans  of  the  Clonmel  Bar- 
racks, and  other  aid  necessary  for  the  surprise  of  the  gar- 
rison. 

He  also  testified  that  not  a single  regiment  in  the  service 
was  free  from  the  same  taint  of  rebellion,  and  that  part  of 
the  conspirators’  scheme  was  the  enlistment  of  revolution- 
ary agents  in  the  various  branches  of  the  British  service. 
O’  Reilly  was  such  an  agent. 

His  testimony  was  brief.  In  reply  to  a question  by  the 
prisoner,  he  said : 


36 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


My  real  name  is  Talbot,  and  I joined  the  constablery  in  1846. 

The  arch-informer  was  succeeded  by  Private  Mullar- 
chy,  Tenth  Hussars. 

In  January  last  I was  in  a public  house,  in  James’s  Street,  with 
the  prisoner.  He  took  me  there  to  see  a friend  of  mine,  as  he  said 
that  about  a fortnight  or  three  weeks  previously  a young  man  was 
inquiring  after  me.  There  were  present  there  two  civilians  to  whom 
he  introduced  me  as  two  of  his  friends,  but  whose  names  I don’t  know. 
From  the  room  we  first  entered  we  went  into  a larger  one,  where  there 
were  three  or  four  soldiers  belonging  to  the  Sixty-first  Regiment  and 
Tenth  Hussars,  another  civilian,  and  a young  woman. 

Prosecutor.  Did  you  see  the  prisoner  stand  up  and  whisper  to  one 
of  the  civilians  ? 

Witness.  Yes,  to  the  civilian  sitting  opposite  to  him.  Very  shortly 
afterwards  the  prisoner  left  the  room  and  did  not  return.  I then  had 
a few  words  with  the  civilian  to  whom  the  prisoner  had  whispered. 

Prosecutor.  Did  you  see  a book  on  that  occasion  ? 

Witness.  Nothing  more  than  the  book  the  civilian  to  whom  the 
prisoner  introduced  me  had  taken  out  of  his  pocket ; the  prisoner  was 
not  then  present.  I had  no  conversation  afterwards  with  the  prisoner 
as  to  what  occurred  in  the  public  house,  or  about  the  friend  of  mine 
of  whom  he  spoke.  I never  ascertained  who  that  friend  was. 
Cross-examined  by  the  Prisoner : 

Witness.  I did  ask  you  to  go  to  the  theater  on  the  night  in  question. 
I told  you  I had  got  paid  my  wages,  that  I was  going  to  the  theater,  and 
that  I should  like  to  go  and  see  the  friend  of  whom  you  had  spoken. 

Prisoner.  Is  that  what  you  call  my  taking  you  to  Pilsworth’s. 

President.  We  have  not  got  as  far  as  Pilsworth’s  yet,  as  far  as  I can 
see. 

Prisoner.  Is  that  what  you  call  my  taking  you  to  the  public  house 
in  James’s  Street  ? 

Witness.  It  is ; I asked  you  to  show  me  where  this  friend  was,  and 
you  said  you  would  take  me  to  the  public  house,  which  was  the  last 
place  where  you  had  seen  him. 

To  the  Court : 

I returned  to  the  barracks  at  twelve  o’clock  that  night.  The  friend 
of  whom  the  prisoner  spoke  was  a civilian,  so  he  told  me.  The  civilian 
who  spoke  to  me  in  the  public  house  asked  me  if  I was  an  Irishman  and 
I said  I was.  He  asked  me  if  I was  going  to  join  this  society.  I asked 
what  society.  He  said,  the  Fenian  society.  I did  not  know  what  that 
was.  Since  I was  in  the  public  house  with  the  prisoner  no  one  spoke 
to  me  of  the  evidence  I was  to  give  here  or  at  this  trial. 

Private  Rorreson,  Tenth  Hussars  : I was  in  Private  Bergin’s  com- 
pany at  Hoey’s  public  house  in  January  last.  On  that  occasion  there 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


37 


were  present  besides  Private  Bergin  and  myself  a number  of  foot- 
soldiers  and  two  civilians,  none  of  whose  names  I know.  The  pris- 
oner was  also  present,  but  I cannot  say  if  he  was  in  the  room  when  I 
entered  or  whether  he  came  in  afterwards.  I saw  Lance-Corporal 
Fitzgerald,  of  the  Tenth  Hussars,  there  too.  He  was  in  the  prisoner’s 
company. 

Prosecutor.  Did  you  see  anything  occur  on  that  occcasion  between 
prisoner  and  the  civilians  ? 

Witness.  I saw  prisoner  go  up  to  Fitzgerald,  and  immediately  the 
latter  and  the  civilians  went  out.  Previous  to  this  I also  saw  him 
whispering  to  the  civilians.  Any  time  he  did  speak  it  was  in  a whisper. 

Prosecutor.  Did  you  see  the  prisoner  go  out  of  the  room  on  that 
occasion  ? 

Witness.  Yes  ; the  three  of  them  left  at  the  same  time.  I did  not 
see  the  prisoner  go  out  of  the  room  more  than  once.  When  the  three 
left  they  were  absent  for  about  ten  or  fifteen  minutes,  and  they  returned 
one  after  the  other.  When  they  returned,  one  of  them  spoke  to  a foot- 
soldier,  said  good-by  to  his  comrade,  and  then  left  the  room.  There 
was  singing  in  the  room  that  evening.  A foot-soldier  sung  one  of 
Moore’s  melodies.  I particularly  remember  the  words  of  one  of  the 
songs — 

We’ll  drive  the  Sassenach  from  our  soil. 

Cross-examined  by  the  Prisoner  : 

I have  been  at  Hoey’s  since  the  occasion  in  question,  but  I cannot 
say  how  often.  I never  saw  Private  Denny  there. 

Question.  If  Lance-Corporal  Fitzgerald  swore  that  on  the  occasion 
in  question  there  were  no  soldiers  at  Hoey’s  but  those  belonging  to 
Tenth  Hussars,  would  he  be  swearing  what  was  true  ? 

Witness.  No,  there  were  infantry  there.  I can’t  say  that  I was  at 
Hoey’s  with  Lance-Corporal  Fitzgerald  in  November  last. 

Here  the  court  adjourned,  and  the  examination  of  Private  Rorreson 
was  resumed  on  the  following  day. 

In  reply  to  the  Court : 

The  infantry  soldiers  were  sitting  alongside  of  me  in  Hoey’s . There 
were  not  thirty  of  the  Sixty-first  Regiment  there.  The  civilians  were 
sitting  at  my  right.  I cannot  say  whether  the  soldiers  came  in  first,  or 
whether  they  were  in  the  room  when  I went  in . I will  not  swear  what 
time  the  meeting  took  place;  it  was  in  January.  No  one  spoke  to  me 
about  my  evidence.  I was  not  asked  to  become  a Fenian  at  Hoey’s. 
Bergin  spoke  to  me  elsewhere  of  it,  but  never  in  the  prisoner’s  presence. 
Any  time  I ever  went  to  Hoey’s  it  was  with  Bergin,  and  the  civilians 
always  paid  for  the  drink.  I never  heard  the  names  of  the  civilians, 
but  afterwards  I heard  one  was  named  Devoy.  I never  heard  the 
names  of  the  others.  Devoy  appeared  to  be  a born  Irishman.  I never 


38 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


heard  any  singing  but  on  that  occasion,  and  the  prisoner  took  no  part 
in  it.  I think  it  was  before  the  night  in  January  that  Bergin  spoke  to 
me  of  being  a Fenian,  on  the  way  to  the  barracks  going  home.  We 
had  been  in  Hoey’s ; the  prisoner  was  there.  Bergin  had  been  speaking 
of  Fenianism  on  the  way  to  the  barracks.  He  said  there  was  such  a 
thing  “ coming  off.” 

President.  What  do  you  mean  by  “ such  a thing  coming  off”  ? 

Witness.  Like  a rebellion  breaking  out. 

Prisoner . When  you  say  you  since  heard  one  of  the  civilians  was 
called  Devoy,  when  did  you  hear  it,  and  who  told  you  ? 

Witness.  I cannot  tell  who  told  me;  Bergin  told  me  he  was  em- 
ployed at  Guiness’s,  but  I cannot  say  who  told  me  his  name. 

Prisoner.  I respectfully  submit  that  all  evidence  given  by  the  last 
witness  relative  to  Bergin  should  be  expunged.  I did  not  object  during 
his  examination,  as  the  questions  were  put  by  the  Court,  but  I do 
now. 

The  court  did  not  accept  this  view  of  the  case.  In  ad- 
mitting the  hearsay  evidence  it  indorsed  the  following 
astounding  propositions  made  by  the  Deputy  Judge  Advo- 
cate : 

Deputy  Judge  Advocate : 

It  is  too  late  to  object.  The  prisoner  should  not  have  allowed  the 
examination  to  go  on  and  taken  his  chance  of  something  favorable  to 
him  being  elicited  by  it.  For  the  rest,  I submit  that  the  acts  or  conver- 
sations of  co-conspirators  are  admissible  as  evidence  against  each  other, 
even  though  one  of  them  on  his  trial  was  not  present  at  those  acts  or 
conversations.  All  the  matters  of  fact  sworn  to,  show  that  the  pris- 
oner and  Bergin  were  participators  in  the  Fenian  plot.  Therefore  the 
prisoner’s  objection  is  unsustainable,  particularly  after  the  examination 
of  the  witness. 

Having  thus  summarily  disposed  of  the  prisoner’s  few 
nominal  rights,  the  prosecution  took  hold  of  the  case  in  the 
good  old-fashioned  way,  by  putting  on  the  stand  an  in- 
former of  the  regulation  Irish  character — one  who  had 
taken  the  Fenian  oath  in  order  to  betray  his  comrades,  and 
excused  himself  for  the  perjury  by  saying,  that,  although 
he  had  a Testament  in  his  hand  and  went  through  the 
motion  of  kissing  it,  he  had  not  really  done  so.  The  testi- 
mony of  this  peculiarly  conscientious  witness  is  interest- 
ing, because  it  is  typical.  He  can  juggle  with  the  Testa- 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


39 


ment,  in  the  hope  of  cheating  the  Devil ; but  when  pressed 
he  owns  up  : “ Most  decidedly  I took  the  oath  with  the 
intention  of  breaking  it.  I cannot  see  how  that  was  per- 
jury.” And  again,  “I  told  the  truth  on  both  trials,  as  far 
as  I can  remember Without  further  preface  the  reader 
is  introduced  to  the  delectable  company  of 

Private  Patrick  Foley,  Fifth  Dragoon  Guards.  I know  the  pris- 
oner. I saw  him  in  Hoey’s  public  house  about  the  14th  of  January. 
He  was  confined,  and  they  were  asking  about  him  at  Hoey’s.  The 
waiter  asked — 

Prisoner.  X object  to  this  evidence.  I was  not  in  the  house  when 
the  questions  were  asked. 

The  objection  was  admitted. 

Witness.  At  the  time  I saw  the  prisoner  at  Hoey’s,  there  were  a 
number  of  people  there,  principally  civilians.  Devoy  was  one,  Wil- 
liams was  another,  and  Corporal  Chambers,  who  used  at  that  time  to 
appear  in  civilian’s  clothes.  Hogan  and  Wilson,  both  deserters  from 
Fifth  Dragoon  Guards,  were  also  there  in  colored  clothes.  There  were 
many  others  whose  names  I do  not  know.  I took  part  in  a conversa- 
tion that  night,  but  I cannot  say  whether  prisoner  was  present. 

To  the  Court : 

The  prisoner  spoke  twice  to  me  during  January  and  February. 

President.  The  question  refers  only  to  one  occasion. 

Witness.  I spoxe  to  the  prisoner  in  February  at  Barclay’s  public 
house.  I do  not  know  on  what  day.  I went  to  the  bar  and  found  the 
prisoner  there.  He  asked  me  to  drink.  We  both  then  went  into  a 
room,  and  the  prisoner  sat  at  a table  with  some  of  his  own  men.  The 
conversation  was  among  themselves,  but  it  could  be  heard  at  the  off 
side  of  the  room.  It  was  on  Fenianism  and  the  probable  fate  of  the 
state  prisoners  who  were  on  trial  at  that  time.  There  was  also  some- 
thing said  about  electing  a president  as  soon  as  they  had  a free  repub- 
lic. They  were  all  paying  attention  to  what  was  being  said,  but  I can- 
not tell  if  the  prisoner  said  more  than  the  remainder.  Devoy  was  there, 
and  Williams.  There  were  other  civilians  present  whose  names  I do 
not  know.  I had  a previous  conversation  in  January  with  the  prisoner 
at  Hoey’s,  but  I cannot  remember  what  it  was  about.  It  was  regarding 
Fenianism,  but  I cannot  tell  the  words  made  use  of.  I met  the  prisoner 
at  Waugh’s  public  house  some  time  toward  the  end  of  1865.  The  civ- 
ilians I have  mentioned  were  there  and  some  soldiers.  In  all  these 
places  the  conversation  was  relating  to  Fenianism,  but  I cannot  say  if 
they  were  in  hearing  of  the  prisoner,  but  everybody  heard  them. 
Devoy  was  at  Waugh’s,  I think.  1 frequently  met  Devoy  in  company 
with  O’Reilly.  I have  heard  Devoy  speak  in  presence  of  the  prisoner 


40 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


about  Fenianisra,  but  I cannot  remember  that  he  said  anything  about 
what  was  to  be  done  in  connection  with  it. 

Prosecutor.  Was  there  at  any  of  these  meetings  of  which  you  spoke, 
and  at  which  the  prisoner  was  present,  any  conversation  of  an  intended 
outbreak  or  mutiny  ? 

Prisoner.  I object  to  that  question,  because  the  witness  has  already 
stated  the  substance  of  the  conversations  as  far  as  he  can  remember. 
The  prosecutor  had  no  right  to  lead  the  witness,  and  put  into  his  mouth 
the  very  words  of  the  charge. 

The  prosecutor  submitted  that  the  question  was  perfectly  fair  and 
legal. 

The  Deputy  Judge  Advocate  ruled  that  the  question  should  be  so 
framed  as  not  to  suggest  the  answer  to  it. 

Witness.  There  was  a conversation  of  an  intended  mutiny  that  was 
to  take  place  in  January  or  the  latter  end  of  February.  The  prisoner 
could  have  heard  the  conversation  that  took  place  in  Hoey’s,  in  January, 
and  in  Barclay’s,  in  February.  I reported  to  my  colonel  in  February 
the  subject  of  the  conversation. 

Court  adjourned  for  half  an  hour. 

Cross-examination  of  Private  Foley  : 

I can  read  and  write.  I took  the  Fenian  oath.  I did  not  call  God  to 
witness  I would  keep  it.  I know  the  nature  of  an  oath.  It  is  to  tell  the 
truth,  and  the  whole  truth.  I had  a Testament  in  my  hand  and  I went 
through  the  motion  of  kissing  it,  but  I did  not  do  so.  I swore  on  two 
previous  occasions  I took  the  Fenian  oath.  Most  decidedly  I took  the 
oath  with  the  intention  of  breaking  it.  I cannot  see  how  that  was 
perjury.  I had  to  take  the  oath,  in  a way,  or  I would  have  known 
nothing  about  the  Fenian  movement.  I was  examined  on  the  trial  of 
Corporal  Chambers.  I was  sworn  on  the  trial  to  tell  the  whole  truth. 
I was  sworn  by  the  president.  I told  the  whole  truth  on  both  trials,  as 
far  as  I can  remember.  I know  Private  Denny  of  Tenth  Hussars  by 
appearance.  I know  Lance-Corporal  Fitzgerald  of  the  Tenth,  also 
by  appearance.  I know  Fitzgerald  personally.  I only  knew  him 
at  these  places  of  meeting.  I think  I knew  him  in  January.  I 
knew  him  to  speak  to  him.  I know  Private  Smith,  Tenth  Hussars,  by 
appearance.  I know  him  only  by  speaking  to  him  in  the  month  of 
February.  I cannot  say  whether  I ever  saw  Private  Denny  in  Hoey’s 
public  house  or  at  Barclay’s  or  Bailey’s.  I cannot  say  how  often  I was 
at  meetings  in  these  houses  in  February.  When  I took  the  Fenian 
oath,  most  decidedly  I intended  to  become  an  informer.  I kept  no 
memoranda  of  the  meetings  I attended,  as  I reported  them  all  to  my 
commanding  officer  in  the  mornings  after  they  took  place.  My  reports 
were  verbal  ones,  and  I never  took  down  the  names  of  those  I met  at 
the  meetings. 


41 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 

Question.  Have  you  met  Corporal  Fitzgerald  at  any  of  those  meet- 
ings ? 

Witness  (to  President) : I am  very  near  tired,  sir,  answering  ques- 
tions. 

President.  If  you  are  tired  standing,  you  may  sit  down. 

Witness.  I met  Fitzgerald  at  Barclay’s  and  at  Hoey’s,  but  I cannot 
say  how  often  ; prisoner  was  present  when  I saw  Fitzgerald  at  Bar- 
clay’s. I knew  him  personally  at  the  time.  I cannot  say  whether  I 
then  spoke  to  him.  At  Corporal  Chambers’s  trial  I was  asked  to  state, 
and  did  so,  who  were  present  at  the  meeting  at  Hoey’s.  I did  name 
the  prisoner  as  having  been  there. 

Court  here  adjourned  for  the  day. 

Cross-examination  of  Private  Foley  resumed , on  July  5. 

Lance-Corporal  Fitzgerald  was  present  on  the  occasion  when  I 
said  he  was  at  Barclay’s,  at  the  time  the  conversation  about  Fenianism 
took  place. 

Lance-Corporal  Fitzgerald  was  here  confronted  with  the  witness, 
and  stated  that  he  did  swear  that  he  met  the  prisoner  at  Hoey’s  and  at 
Pilsworth’s,  but  not  at  Barclay’s.  Private  Foley  would  not  be  swear- 
ing what  was  true  if  he  swore  that  he  (Fitzgerald)  made  a speech  on 
Fenianism  at  Barclay’s,  or  was  present  at  a conversation  there  about 
electing  a president,  “ when  we  would  have  a free  republic.” 

To  the  President  : 

I was  never  at  Hoey’s  public  house  in  the  prisoner’s  company,  but 
I was  there  two  or  three  days  after  his  arrest,  when  a man  named' Wil- 
liams came  up  to  the  barracks  and  told  me  there  was  to  be  a Fenian 
meeting  at  Barclay’s.  On  the  13th  of  January,  prisoner  absented  him- 
self, and  on  the  14th  inst.  (Sunday)  he  was  taken  from  the  barracks  by 
a detective  policeman. 

To  the  Prosecutor  : 

I have  never  made  a speech  on  Fenianism  to  my  recollection,  at 
Barclay’s.  I might  have  said  things  when  I was  drunk  that  I would 
not  answer  for  afterwards.  I swear  positively  that  I was  never  present 
on  any  occasion  when  there  was  talk  of  electing  a president  of  a repub- 
lic. I might  have  been  present  at  such  conversation  and  not  know  any- 
thing about  it. 

Prisoner  contended  that  this  evidence  should  have  been  given  in 
direct  examination  but  was  not  admissible  in  cross-examination. 

The  prosecutor  contended  that  the  witness,  who  was  recalled  by  the 
prisoner,  for  the  purpose  of  confronting  him  with  another,  was  not 
asked  anything  that  was  not  perfectly  fair  and  proper  for  the  purpose 
of  eliciting  the  truth. 


42 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


Deputy  Judge  Advocate  ruled  that  the  evidence  was  legal  and 
proper. 

Witness  to  Prosecutor : 

I never  made  a speech  on  Fenianism,  to  my  recollection,  at  any 
place.  I might  have  said  things  when  I was  drunk  that  I would  not 
answer  for  afterwards.  I was  drunk  every  time  I went  there  after- 
wards. I swear  positively  I was  never  present  on  an  occasion  when 
there  was  a conversation  about  electing  a president  of  a republic.  I 
might  have  been  present  at  such  conversation  when  drunk,  and  not 
know  anything  about  it. 

The  Court.  Why  was  Williams  sent  to  tell  you  of  the  Fenian  meet- 
ing if,  as  you  say,  you  had  previously  refused  to  become  a Fenian  ? 

Witness.  He  was  sent,  I don’t  know  by  whom,  but  he  used  to  go 
round  to  Island  Bridge  and  Richmond  Barracks  for  that  purpose. 
Private  Foley  ( re-examined  by  prosecutor ) : 

Having  heard  the  evidence  of  Lance-Corporal  Fitzgerald,  I have  not 
the  least  doubt  that  I met  him  at  Barclay’s  in  February  last.  The 
reason  I did  not,  on  Corporal  Chambers’s  trial,  mention  prisoner  as 
being  present  at  Barclay’s  in  February,  was  that  I had  some  doubts  of 
his  name.  I have  now  no  doubt  that  he  was  present. 

To  the  Prisoner : 

I did  mention  your  name  to  the  prosecution  about  a fortnight  ago. 

This  ended  the  examination  of  Informer  Foley.  He 
was  followed  by  a duller,  but  more  malicious  knave,  Private 
Meara,  who  boasted,  with  low  cunning,  that  he  had  taken 
the  Fenian  oath  out  of  curiosity,  and  with  the  intention  of 
betraying  his  fellows ; repeated  his  own  smart  repartees, 
and  put  into  the  mouth  of  the  prisoner  the  wholly  imaginary 
atrocious  promise,  that  he  would  hamstring  the  cavalry 
horses  in  case  of  emergency.  One  can  almost  form  a pic- 
ture of  this  ruffian  from  his  own  words.  The  official 
report  reads : 

Private  Meara,  First  Battalion,  Eighth  Regiment,  deposed  : He 
was  a member  of  the  Fenian  Society  and  attended  several  meetings  of 
that  body,  at  which  were  present  other  soldiers.  He  saw  the  prisoner 
at  a meeting  in  Hoey’s  public-house  in  January,  in  company  with 
Devoy  and  Williams,  whom  he  knew  to  be  Fenians,  and  with  other 
soldiers,  as  also  with  Baines,  Rynd,  and  others.  On  that  occasion  he 
saw  a sketch  of  Island  Bridge  Barracks  in  the  prisoner’s  hand,  which 
he  was  explaining  to  Devoy. 

The  President,  You  are  asked  what  was  said. 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


48 


Witness.  Devoy  said  he  wanted  a few  men  out  of  the  Hussars  to 
give  them  instruction  what  to  do,  and  he  wanted  about  ten  men  out  of 
each  regiment  in  Dublin.  The  prisoner  spoke  of  cutting  the  hamstrings 
of  the  horses  in  the  stables  in  case  of  any  emergency.  The  conversa- 
tion then  turned  on  a rising  in  the  army  and  how  the  men  would  act. 
I said  the  Irishmen  in  the  army  saw  no  prospect  before  them,  and  they 
would  be  great  fools  to  commit  themselves.  Devoy  said  they  would 
not  be  asked  until  a force  came  from  America.  I said  it  was  all  moon- 
shine, and  that  they  were  a long  time  coming.  He  told  me  I seemed 
chicken-hearted,  and  that  they  required  no  men  but  those  who  were 
willing  and  brave.  I told  him  I was  as  brave  as  himself,  and  that  he 
should  not  form  soldiers  in  a room  for  the  purpose  of  discussing 
Fenianism.  That  is  all  the  conversation  I can  remember  on  that 
occasion. 

Cross-examined  by  the  Prisoner: 

I was  examined  on  Corporal  Chambers’s  trial.  I am  not  sure  whether 
I namfed  you  as  one  of  the  soldiers  present  on  the  occasion  referred  to 
in  my  evidence.  I took  the  Fenian  oath,  out  of  curiosity  to  see  what 
the  Irish  conspiracy  or  republic,  as  they  called  it,  was.  If  any  serious 
consequences  would  arise  I would  have  given  information  of  the  move- 
ment. I had  an  opportunity  of  seeing  into  the  Fenian  movement,  and 
I saw  that  nothing  serious  was  going  to  happen.  If  there  was  I would 
have  known  it  days  before,  and  then  given  information.  I heard 
Stephens  himself  say  at  Bergin’s,  that  the  excitement  should  be  kept  up 
while  aid  from  America  was  expected.  In  last  March  I made  a state- 
ment affecting  you. 

This  closed  the  case  for  the  prosecution. 

At  the  request  of  the  prisoner  the  Court  adjourned  to  Saturday, 
July  7,  to  give  him  time  to  prepare  his  defense. 

Court  having  assembled  on  that  date,  the  prisoner  requested  that 
some  member  of  it  be  appointed  to  read  his  defense. 

Lieutenant  Parkinson,  Sixty-first  Regiment,  was  then  requested  to 
do  so. 

The  defense  commenced  by  thanking  the  Court  for  the  patient  and 
candid  consideration  which  had  been  bestowed  by  the  members  through- 
out the  trial,  and  stated  that  the  prisoner  had  no  doubt  but  that  the 
same  qualities  would  be  exhibited  in  consideration  of  the  points  which 
would  be  submitted  to  them  for  his  defense.  The  charge  against  him 
was  one  involving  terrible  consequences,  and  he  had  no  doubt  the 
greater  would  be  the  anxiety  of  the  Court  in  testing  the  evidence 
brought  against  him. 

There  was  only  one  charge  which  the  Court  had  to  consider,  and 
that  was:  “ Having  come  to  the  knowledge  of  an  intended  mutiny.” 
To  sustain  that  charge  the  prosecutor  should  prove,  first,  that  there 


44 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


was  a mutiny  actually  intended ; second,  that  he  (the  prisoner)  had  a 
knowledge  of  that  intention,  and  third,  that  he  possessed  that  knowl- 
edge in  January,  1866,  and  did  not  communicate  it  to  his  commanding 
officer.  The  prosecutor  was  bound  to  prove  each  and  every  one  of 
those  allegations,  by  evidence  on  which  the  court  might  safely  act. 
After  referring  to  his  services  he  asked  the  court  to  bear  in  mind  his 
good  reputation,  while  considering  the  evidence  against  him,  as  it  must 
have  observed  that,  from  the  character  of  some  of  the  proofs  upon 
which  the  prosecutor  relied,  in  conversations  with  no  third  person 
present,  and  no  date  fixed,  it  was  impossible  to  displace  such  testimony 
by  direct  evidence. 

The  defense  then  pointed  out  various  discrepancies  between  various 
witnesses  and  the  contradiction  between  the  evidence  of  Privates  Denny 
and  Smith,  where  Denny  had  clearly  committed  perjury.  But  even  if 
these  men’s  evidence  were  true,  it  would  not  bring  home  to  him  one 
fact  to  bear  out  the  charge. 

None  of  these  witnesses  can  say  that  in  his  presence  one  word  was 
ever  said  respecting  the  designs  or  the  plans  of  the  Fenians,  and  it 
only  amounted  to  this,  that  one  day,  in  a casual  conversation,  he  said 
to  Smith  that  some  persons  they  had  met  were  Americans  and  Fenian 
agents.  In  the  whole  evidence,  which,  in  the  cases  of  Foley  and 
Meara  was  that  of  informers,  there  was  much  to  which  the  addition  or 
omission  of  a word  would  give  a very  different  color  to  what  it  had 
got.  What  was  the  amount  of  credit  to  be  given  to  those  men,  when 
it  was  remembered  that  they  both  took  the  Fenian  oath,  the  one,  as 
he  said,  through  curiosity,  the  other  with  the  deliberate  design  of 
informing  ? 

Meara’s  oath,  on  his  own  admission,  had  not  been  believed  by  a civil 
court  of  justice  ; and  would  this  court  believe  it  and  convict  a man  of 
crime  upon  such  testimony  ? He  (the  prisoner)  asked  the  court  to 
reject  this  testimony  and  rely  upon  that  of  his  commanding  officer, 
Col.  Baker,  who  had  deposed  to  his  good  character  as  a soldier.  In 
conclusion,  the  prisoner  appealed  to  the  Deputy  Judge  Advocate,  to 
direct  the  court  that  unless  he  had  personal  knowledge  of  an  intended 
mutiny  in  January,  he  was  entitled  to  an  acquittal.  Guilt  was  never 
to  be  assumed,  it  should  be  proved  ; for  suspicion,  no  matter  how 
accumulated,  could  never  amount  to  the  mental  conviction  on  which 
alone  the  court  should  act. 

The  defense  having  concluded,  prisoner  called  Capt.  Barthorp, 
Tenth  Hussars,  who  was  a member  of  the  court.  In  reply  to  questions 
put,  Capt.  Barthorp  said  : 

He  was  captain  of  the  prisoner’s  troop,  and  had  known  him  for 
three  years.  His  character  was  good . 

Mr.  Anderson,  Crown  Solicitor,  was  sworn  and  examined  by 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


45 


prisoner  with  regard  to  a portion  of  Private  Meara’s  evidence  on  Cor- 
poral Chambers’s  trial,  relative  to  the  alleged  meeting.  Meara  did  not 
mention  the  prisoner  as  having  been  present  at  the  alleged  meeting, 
when  giving  evidence  at  Chambers’s  trial  : but  on  the  present  one  he 
swore  that  he  was  present. 

In  reply  to  the  Prosecutor  : 

Deputy  Judge  Advocate  said  he  could  not  state  whether  the  meeting 
of  which  Meara  had  deposed  at  Chambers’s  trial  was  the  same  men- 
tioned on  this. 

Prisoner.  I would  wish  to  ask  the  Deputy  Judge  Advocate  a ques- 
tion which  arises  out  of  his  answer  : Did  you  not  hear  Private  Meara 

asked  on  my  trial  to  name  the  persons  he  had  met  at  the  meeting  which 
he  deposed  to  at  Corporal  Chambers’s  trial,  and  did  he  not  do  so  ? 

Deputy  Judge  Advocate.  I did  hear  that  evidence  given;  I did 
hear  him  state  the  names. 

Adjutant  Russell,  Tenth  Hussars,  in  answer  to  prisoner,  said: 
He  (prisoner)  was  put  under  arrest  on  the  14th  of  February.  The 
prisoner  was  in  hospital  for  several  days  in  February,  from  19th  to 
26th. 

President.  I do  not  wish  to  interrupt  the  prisoner,  but  I wish  to 
point  out  that  these  dates  are  all  subsequent  to  the  charge. 

At  this  point  court  adjourned  to  eleven  o’clock  Monday  morning. 

At  the  reopening  of  the  court,  Capt.  Whelan  (the  prosecutor)  pro- 
ceeded to  answer  the  defense  of  the  prisoner.  His  reply  entered  elabor- 
ately into  the  whole  evidence  that  had  been  given,  and  commented  on 
the  various  points  raised  for  the  defense.  Capt.  Whelan  defended 
strongly  the  various  witnesses  from  the  charge  brought  against  them 
by  the  prisoner,  of  being  informers,  and  insisted  that  they  were  all 
trustworthy  and  credible,  and  that  the  discrepancies  pointed  out  in  the 
defense  were  such  as  would  naturally  arise. 

The  Deputy  Judge  Advocate  then  proceeded  to  sum  up  the  whole 
evidence.  In  doing  so,  he  said  : 

The  court  should  bear  in  mind  that  the  existence  of  an  intended 
mutiny  should  be  proved  before  the  prisoner  should  be  found  guilty  of 
the  charges  upon  which  he  was  arraigned.  The  court  should  also  bear 
in  mind  that  it  was  for  it  to  prove  charges  and  not  for  the  prisoner  to 
disprove  them.  To  experienced  officers,  like  those  composing  the  court, 
it  was  not  necessary  for  him  (the  Judge- Advocate)  to  state  what  the 
law  was,  bearing  on  those  charges.  He  might  say,  however,  that  if  the 
prisoner  did  come  to  the  knowledge  of  an  intended  mutiny,  it  would 
be  for  them  to  say  whether  the  prisoner  had  given  notice  of  any  such 
intended  mutiny  to  his  commanding  officer.  This,  his  commanding 
officers  state,  he  did  not  do ; so  that  it  became  the  subject  of  inquiry 
whether  any  such  mutiny  was  intended:  They  had  the  evidence  of 


46 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’ REILLY. 


Head  Constable  Talbot  on  that  point,  and  they  should  attentively  weigh 
it.  Assuming  that  it  was  intended,  and  that  the  prisoner  was  aware  of 
it  and  an  accomplice  in  the  design,  they  had  then  no  less  than  eight 
witnesses  to  prove  that  complicity.  The  Deputy  Judge  Advocate  then 
went  minutely  through  the  whole  evidence,  which  he  recapitulated  in 
a lucid  manner,  pointing  out  to  the  court  where  it  was  favorable  for 
the  prisoner  or  bore  against  him. 

The  Judge  Advocate  concluded  by  saying:  “ Now,  on  a calm  and  fair 
review  of  the  evidence,  determining  in  favor  of  the  prisoner  every, 
thing  of  which  there  was  reasonable  doubt,  straining  nothing  against 
him,  is  the  court  satisfied  that  the  facts  are  inconsistent  with  any  other 
conclusion  than  the  prisoner’s  guilt  ? Is  the  court  satisfied  that  the 
Fenians  intended  mutiny  as  one  of  the  essentials  of  that  plot  ? 

‘ 4 Are  they  satisfied  that  the  prisoner  knew  of  that  intention  ? If  you 
are  not  satisfied  that  the  evidence  adduced  for  the  prosecution  has 
brought  home  to  the  prisoner  the  charges  on  which  he  is  indicted  ; if 
you  can  fairly  and  honestly  see  your  way  to  put  an  innocent  construc- 
tion on  the  prisoner’s  acts,  it  is  your  duty  to  do  so. 

“ But,  on  the  other  hand,  if  the  court  has  no  rational  doubt  of  the 
prisoner’s  guilt,  then  it  is  bound,  without  favor,  partiality,  or  affection, 
to  find  their  verdict  accordingly.  Remember,  though,  that  although 
you  may  feel  very  great  suspicion  of  the  prisoner’s  guilt,  yet  if  you  are 
not  satisfied  that  the  charge  is  proved  home  to  him  beyond  rational 
doubt,  no  amount  of  suspicion  will  justify  conviction.  Apply  to  your 
consideration  of  the  evidence,  the  same  calm,  deliberate,  and  faithful 
attention  and  judgment  which  you  would  apply  to  your  own  most 
serious  affairs,  if  all  you  value  most  and  hold  most  dear,  your  lives  and 
honor,  were  in  peril.  The  law  demands  no  more,  and  your  duty  will 
be  satisfied  with  no  less.” 

At  the  conclusion  of  the  Judge  Advocate’s  address,  the  court  was 
made  private,  to  consider  their  finding.  After  a short  time  it  was 
reopened,  and 

Adjutant  Russell,  Tenth  Hussars,  was  called  to  give  testimony  to 
the  prisoner’s  character.  He  said  that  it  had  been  good  during  his 
three  years  and  thirty-one  days  of  service. 

The  court  was  then  again  cleared  and  the  result  was  not  known 
until  officially  promulgated  by  the  Horse  Guards. 

On  July  9,  1866,  formal  sentence  of  death  was  passed  upon  all  the 
military  prisoners.  It  was  only  a formality.  The  same  day,  it  was 
commuted  to  life  imprisonment  in  the  cases  of  O’Reilly,  McCarthy, 
Chambers,  Keating,  and  Darragh.  The  sentence  of  O’Reilly  was 
subsequently  commuted  to  twenty  years  penal  servitude. 

Adjutant  Russell,  referred  to  in  .the  preceding  report, 
better  known  as  Lord  Odo  Russell,  liad  pleaded  successfully 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


47 


for  leniency  in  behalf  of  the  youthful  prisoner.  The  first 
step  in  execution  of  the  sentence  was  taken  on  Monday 
afternoon,  September  3,  in  the  Royal  Square,  Royal  Bar- 
racks, in  the  presence  of  the  Fifth  Dragoon  Guards,  Sec- 
ond Battalion,  Third  Regiment,  Seventy- fifth  Regiment, 
Ninety-second  Highlanders,  and  Eighty-fifth  Light  Infan- 
try. The  prisoner  was  then  and  there  made  listen  to  the 
reading  of  his  sentence,  stripped  of  his  military  uniform, 
clothed  in  the  convict’s  dress,  and  escorted  to  Mountjoy 
prison. 

Before  dismissing  the  story  of  his  trial,  I may  here 
relate  a curious  sequel,  which  occurred  some  six  or  seven 
years  later  in  the  city  of  Boston.  O’Reilly  had  many 
strange  visitors  in  his  newspaper  office,  but  perhaps  the 
strangest  of  all  was  one  of  the  two  informers  before  men- 
tioned. This  fellow,  after  O’Reilly’s  conviction,  found 
himself  so  despised  and  shunned  by  his  fellow-soldiers, 
both  English  and  Irish,  that  his  life  became  unendurable. 
He  deserted  the  army  and  fled  to  America,  where  the  story 
of  his  treachery  had  preceded  him.  He  was  starving  in 
the  streets  of  Boston  when  he  met  his  former  victim,  and 
threw  himself  upon  his  mercy.  Almost  any  other  man 
would  have  enjoyed  the  spectacle  of  the  traitor’s  misery. 
O’  Reilly  saw  only  the  pity  of  it  all,  and  gave  the  wretch 
enough  money  to  supply  his  immediate  wants,  and  pay 
his  way  to  some  more  propitious  spot. 


CHAPTER  III. 


Solitary  Confinement  — An  Autobiographical  Sketch  — Pentonville, 
Millbank,  Chatham,  Dartmoor — Three  Bold  Attempts  to  Escape — 
Realities  of  Prison  Life — The  Convict  Ship  Hougoumont — The 
Exiles  and  their  Paper,  The  Wild  Goose. 

THREE  characteristic  poems  were  written  by  O’Reilly 
on  the  walls  of  his  prison  cell  at  this  time  : “The 

Irish  Flag,”  a short  patriotic  outburst ; “ For  Life,”  com- 
posed on  hearing  that  his  comrade  Color- Sergeant  Mc- 
Carthy had  received  a life  sentence,  and  “The  Irish 
Soldiers,”  this  last  having  a foot-note  appended  as  follows  : 
“ Written  on  the  wall  of  my  cell  with  a nail,  July  17,  1866. 
Once  an  English  soldier ; now  an  Irish  felon  ; and  proud  of 
the  exchange.” 

Of  the  three  poems,  the  second  is  the  best,  though  all 
are  so  lacking  in  finish  and  strength  that  he  wisely  forebore 
including  any  of  them  in  his  published  volumes.  It  begins 
with  a strong  stanza,  suggestive  of  the  poet’s  later  and 
better  work,  but  its  merit  may  be  said  to  end  there. 

Of  all  charges  guilty  ! he  knew  it  before  ; 

But  it’s  now  read  aloud  in  the  scarlet-clad  square, — 
Formality’s  farce  must  be  played  out  once  more — 

May  it  sink  in  the  heart  of  his  countrymen  there  ! 

After  a short  detention  at  Mountjov,  O’Reilly,  Mc- 
Carthy, and  Chambers  were  marched  through  the  streets, 
chained  together  by  the  arms,  and  shipped  over  to  Eng- 
land, to  begin  their  long  term  of  suffering.  They  were  at 
first  confined  in  Pentonville,  where  they  were  allowed  but 
one  hour  of  exercise  a day,  the  “exercise”  consisting  in 
pacing  to  and  fro  in  a cell  without  a roof.  The  rest  of  the 
day  they  were  locked  up  in  their  separate  cells. 

In  a few  days  they  were  transferred  to  Millbank  to 
undergo  a term  of  solitary  confinement,  preliminary  to  the 

48 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


49 


severe  physical  punishment  ordained  in  their  sentence. 
Every  reader  of  Dickens  remembers  the  description  in  his 
“American  Notes,”  of  the  Eastern  Penitentiary  at  Phila- 
delphia, and  its  “ Solitary  System.”  It  was  the  same 
system,  in  its  absolute  seclusion  of  the  prisoner  from  his 
fellows,  as  that  which  prevailed  in  Millbank.  All  that 
Dickens  says  of  the  prison  in  Philadelphia  applies  equally 
to  Millbank : 

‘ ‘ I hold  this  slow  and  daily  tampering  with  the  mys- 
teries of  the  brain  to  be  immeasurably  worse  than  any 
torture  of  the  body  ; and  because  its  ghastly  signs  and 
tokens  are  not  so  palpable  to  the  eye  and  sense  of  touch  as 
scars  upon  the  flesh  ; because  its  wounds  are  not  upon  the 
surface,  and  it  extorts  few  cries  that  human  ears  can  hear  ; 
therefore,  I the  more  denounce  it,  as  a secret  punishment 
which  slumbering  humanity  is  not  roused  up  to  stay.  I 
hesitated  once,  debating  with  myself,  whether,  if  I had  the 
power  of  saying  ‘Yes'  or  ‘No,’  I would  allow  it  to  be 
tried  in  certain  cases,  where  the  terms  of  imprisonment  were 
short ; but  now,  I solemnly  declare,  that  with  no  rewards 
or  honors  could  I walk  a happy  man  beneath  the  open  sky 
by  day,  or  lie  me  down  upon  my  bed  at  night,  with  the 
consciousness  that  one  human  creature,  for  any  length  of 
time,  no  matter  what,  lay  suffering  this  unknown  punish- 
ment in  his  silent  cell,  and  I the  cause,  or  I consenting  to  it 
in  the  least  degree.” 

The  condemnation  of  the  great  novelist  is  sweeping,  the 
words  which  I have  italicized  above  showing  that  he  did  not 
measure  the  horror  of  the  punishment  by  its  duration. 
Self-satisfied  reformers  have  pooh-poohed  his  verdict  as 
that  of  a sentimentalist  who  had  enjoyed  no  personal  ex- 
perience of  the  system.  That  their  experience  of  it  had 
been  wholly  impersonal  also,  made  no  difference  in  their 
judgment  of  its  merits.  Other  supporters  of  the  system 
have  pointed  triumphantly  to  the  fact  that  the  convict 
Charles  Langheimer, — “Dickens’s  Dutchman,”  as  he  was 
called,— whom  the  author  of  the  “Notes”  had  described 
dramatically  among  the  victims  of  the  system,  served  his 


50 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


sentence  of  five  years,  and  various  other  sentences  after- 
wards, aggregating  altogether  some  forty- two  years,  and 
died  in  prison  at  last  at  the  age  of  seventy.  He  became 
such  a confirmed  jail-bird  that  on  the  expiration  of  one 
term  of  imprisonment,  he  would  immediately  commit  some 
new  theft,  in  order  that  he  might  be  returned  to  his  old 
quarters.  Which  is  a complete  demonstration  of  the  value 
of  the  system,  as  a reformatory  agent,  in  the  eyes  of  its 
worshipers. 

Happily  we  are  not  without  the  evidence  of  better  au- 
thorities on  the  subject  than  either  the  humane  novelist, 
who  studied  it  as  a mere  visitor,  or  the  poor  debased  and 
brutalized  “ Dutchman,”  whom  it  so  successfully  unfitted 
for  a life  of  freedom.  John  Mitchell,  the  iron- willed 
patriot,  whom  no  physical  torture  could  subdue,  confesses 
that  when  the  door  of  his  cell  first  closed  on  him,  and  he 
realized  the  full  meaning  of  “ solitary  confinement,”  he 
flung  himself  upon  his  bed  and  4 6 broke  into  a raging  pas- 
sion of  tears — tears  bitter  and  salt,  but  not  of  base  lamenta- 
tion for  my  own  fate.  The  thoughts  and  feelings  that  have 
so  shaken  me  for  this  once,  language  was  never  made  to 
describe.” 

Michael  Davitt  says : 

The  vagrant  sunbeam  that  finds  its  way  to  the  lonely  occupant  of  a 
prison  cell,  but  speaks  of  the  liberty  which  others  enjoy,  of  the  happi- 
ness that  falls  to  the  lot  of  those  whom  misfortune  has  not  dragged 
from  the  pleasures  of  life  ; the  cries,  the  noise,  and  uproar  of  London 
which  penetrate  the  silent  corridors,  and  re-echo  in  the  cheerless  cells 
of  Mill  bank,  are  so  many  mocking  voices  that  come  to  laugh  at  the 
misery  their  walls  inclose,  and  arouse  the  recollection  of  happier  days 
to  probe  the  wounds  of  present  sorrow. 

***** 

A circumstance  in  connection  with  the  situation  of  Millbank  may 
(taken  with  what  I have  already  said  on  that  prison)  give  some  faint 
idea  of  what  confinement  there  really  means.  Westminster  Tower 
clock  is  not  far  distant  from  the  penitentiary,  so  that  its  every  stroke  is 
as  distinctly  heard  in  each  cell  as  if  it  were  situated  in  one  of  the  prison 
yards.  At  each  quarter  of  an  hour,  day  and  night,  it  chimes  a bar  of 
“ 01d  Hundredth,”  and  those  solemn  tones  strike  on  the  ears  of  the 


51 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 

lonely  listeners  like  the  voice  of  some  monster  singing  the  funeral  dirge 
of  time. 

Oft  in  the  lonely  watches  of  the  night  has  it  reminded  me  of  the 
number  of  strokes  I was  doomed  to  listen  to,  and  of  how  slowly  those 
minutes  were  creeping  along  ! The  weird  chant  of  Westminster  clock 
will  ever  haunt  my  memory,  and  recall  that  period  of  my  imprison- 
ment when  I first  had  to  implore  Divine  Providence  to  preserve  my 
reason  and  save  me  from  the  madness  which  seemed  inevitable,  through 
mental  and  corporal  tortures  combined. 

That  human  reason  should  give  way  under  such  adverse  influences 
is  not,  I think,  to  be  wondered  at  ; and  many  a still  living  wreck  of 
manhood  can  refer  to  the  silent  system  of  Millbank  and  its  pernicious 
surroundings  as  the  cause  of  his  debilitated  mind. 

It  was  here  that  Edward  Duffy  died,  and  where  Rickard  Burke  and 
Martin  Hanly  Carey  were  for  a time  oblivious  of  their  sufferings  from 
temporary  insanity,  and  where  Daniel  Reddin  was  paralyzed.  It  was 
here  where  Thomas  Ahern  first  showed  symptoms  of  madness,  and  was 
put  in  dark  cells  and  strait-jacket  for  a “test  ” as  to  the  reality  of  these 
symptoms. 

Davitt  further  avers  that  during  all  his  confinement  at 
Millbank, — 

My  conversation  with  prisoners, — at  the  risk  of  being  punished,  of 
course, — and  also  with  warders  and  chaplains,  would  not  occupy  me 
twenty  minutes  to  repeat,  could  I collect  all  the  scattered  words  spoken 
by  me  in  the  whole  of  that  ten  months.  I recollect  many  weeks  going 
by  without  exchanging  a single  word  with  a human  being. 

Corporal  Thomas  Chambers  says : 

I was  confined  in  a ward  by  myself,  was  never  allowed  to  be  near 
other  prisoners.  Even  in  chapel  I was  compelled  to  kneel  apart  from 
the  others  and  had  a jailer  close  to  me.  I was  removed  from  one  cell 
to  another  every  morning  and  evening.  All  through  the  winter  I was 
forced  to  either  sit  on  a bucket  or  stand  up,  but  would  not  be  allowed 
to  move  about  in  my  cell. 

The  cells,  in  which  poor  Chambers  complained  he  was 
not  allowed  to  walk  about,  were  not  spacious,  being  nine 
or  ten  feet  long  by  about  eight  feet  wide,  with  stone  floors, 
bare  walls,  and,  for  sole  furniture,  a bedstead  of  three  planks 
a few  inches  from  the  floor,  and  a water  bucket  which  had 
to  serve  as  a chair  when  the  prisoner  was  at  work  picking 
oakum  or  coir.  There  was  no  fire;  walking  in  the  cells 
was  prohibited  ; and  the  scanty  bed-clothing  barely  suf- 


52 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


ficed  to  keep  the  occupant  from  freezing.  An  hour’s  exer- 
cise in  the  yard  was  allowed  every  day,  the  only  other 
variation  of  the  monotonous  regime  being  the  daily  work  of 
washing  and  scrubbing  his  cell,  which  each  prisoner  had 
to  do  immediately  on  getting  up. 

The  food  was  in  keeping  with  the  lodgings  ; sufficient  to 
sustain  life,  but  nothing  more. 

The  severest  punishment  of  Millbank  was  the  silence 
and  solitude,  almost  unbearable  to  anybody  whose  mind 
was  not  exceptionally  strong  or  exceptionally  stolid. 
O’  Reilly  had  the  blessing  and  the  curse  of  genius,  an  active, 
vivid  imagination.  He  found  solace  in  his  thoughts  and  in 
the  pages  of  “ The  Imitation  of  Christ,”  which  he  was  al- 
lowed to  read ; but  he  endured  many  hours  of  the  keenest 
anguish.  At  times  his  mind  was  abnormally  active  ; he 
felt  an  exaltation  of  the  soul  such  as  an  anchorite  knows  ; 
he  had  ecstatic  visions.  Again,  his  vigorous  physical 
nature  asserted  itself,  and  he  yearned  for  freedom,  as  the 
healthy,  natural  man  must  ever  do  in  confinement. 

But  he  had  made  up  his  mind,  on  entering  the  prison, 
to  conquer  circumstances,  to  preserve  his  brain  and  body 
sound,  and  to  bear  with  patience  the  ills  which  he  could  not 
escape.  He  took  an  interest  in  studying  the  fellow  prison- 
ers with  whom  he  was  forbidden  to  hold  the  slightest  inter- 
course. The  prohibition  did  not  always  avail,  for  human 
ingenuity  can  ever  circumvent  the  most  rigid  of  rules.  The 
political  convicts  in  the  early  days  of  their  imprisonment 
in  Arbor  Hill  had  devised  a rude  system  of  telegraphy  by 
tapping  on  the  iron  pipes  running  through  all  the  cells.  It 
was  a slow  and  cumbrous  device,  but  time  was  then  of 
the  least  importance  to  them.  There  were  also  occasional 
chances  of  exchanging  a whisper  as  they  filed  to  prayers,  or 
meals,  or  marched  in  the  hour  of  daily  exercise. 

Among  O’Reilly’s  MSS.  is  the  following  fragment, 
written  several  years  ago— a curious  study  of  prison  life 
from  the  inside  : 

One  meets  strange  characters  in  prison,  characters  which  are  at 
once  recognized  as  being  natural  to  the  place,  as  are  bats  or  owls  to  a 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


53 


cave.  Prison  characters,  like  all  others,  are  seen  by  different  men  in 
different  lights.  For  instance,  a visitor  passing  along  a corridor,  and 
glancing  through  the  iron  gates  or  observation-holes  of  the  cells,  sees 
only  the  quiet,  and,  to  him,  sullen-looking  convict,  with  all  the  crime- 
suggesting  bumps  largely  developed  on  his  shaven  head.  The  same 
man  will  be  looked  upon  by  the  officer  who  has  charge  of  him  as  one 
of  the  best,  most  obedient,  and  industrious  of  the  prisoners,  which  con- 
clusion he  comes  to  by  a closer  acquaintance  than  that  of  the  visitor  ; 
although  his  observations  are  still  only  of  exteriors.  No  man  sees  the 
true  nature  of  the  convict  but  his  fellow-convict.  He  looks  at  him 
with  a level  glance  and  sees  him  in  a common  atmosphere.  However 
convicts  deceive  their  prison  officers  and  chaplains,  which  they  do  in 
the  majority  of  cases,  they  never  deceive  their  fellows. 

I was  a convict  in  an  English  prison  four  years  ago,  and,  before  the 
impressions  then  received  are  weakened  or  rubbed  out  by  time,  it  may 
be  of  interest  to  recall  a few  reminiscences.  First,  let  me  remove  all 
fears  of  those  who  are  thinking  that,  where  they  least  expect  it,  they 
have  fallen  among  thieves.  I was  not  in  the  true  sense  of  the  word  a 
criminal,  although  classed  with  them  and  treated  precisely  the  same  as 
they  were.  My  offense  against  the  law  was  political.  I had  been  a 
soldier  in  a cavalry  regiment,  and  had  been  convicted  of  being  a repub- 
lican and  trying  to  make  other  men  the  same  ; and  so,  in  the  winter  of 
1867,  it  came  about  that  I occupied  Cell  32,  in  Pentagon  5,  Millbank 
prison,  London,  on  the  iron-barred  door  of  which  cell  hung  a small 
white  card  bearing  this  inscription,  “John  Boyle  O’Reilly,  20  years.” 

Some  people  would  think  it  strange  that  I should  still  regard  that 
cell — in  which  I spent  nearly  a year  of  solitary  confinement — with 
affection  ; but  it  is  true.  Man  is  a domestic  animal,  and  to  a prisoner, 
with  “20  years”  on  his  door,  the  cell  is  Home.  I look  back  with 
fond  regard  to  a great  many  cells  and  a great  many  prisons  in  England 
and  Australia,  which  are  associated  to  my  mind  in  a way  not  to  be 
wholly  understood  by  any  one  but  myself.  And  if  ever  I should  go 
back  to  England  (which  is  doubtful,  for  I escaped  from  prison  in 
Australia  in  1869,  and  so  permanently  ended  the  20  years),  the  first 
place  I would  visit  would  be  one  of  the  old  prisons.  Remember,  my 
name  and  many  a passing  thought  are  scratched  and  written  on  many 
a small  place  within  those  cells  which  I perfectly  well  recollect,  and  it 
would  be  a great  treat  to  go  back  some  day  and  read  them.  And  then, 
during  the  time  I was  in  prison,  I got  acquainted  with  thousands  of 
professional  criminals,  old  and  young,  who  will  be  the  occupants  of 
the  English  jails  for  the  next  twenty  years  ; and  I confess  it  would  be 
of  great  interest  to  me  to  go  back  and  walk  the  corridor  with  all  the 
brimming  respectability  of  a visitor,  and  stop  when  I saw  a face  I knew 
of  old,  and  observe  how  time  and  villainy  had  dealt  with  it. 


54 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


I had  been  in  prison  about  eight  months— all  the  time  in  solitary 
confinement — before  I was  brought  “cheek  by  jowl”  with  the  regu- 
lar criminals.  I confess  I had  a fear  of  the  first  plunge  into  the  sea 
of  villainous  association  ; but  my  army  experience  rendered  the  immer- 
sion easier  for  me  than  for  many  others  who  had  been  dragged  to  con- 
finement from  the  purity  of  a happy  home.  I was  in  separate  confine- 
ment in  Millbank,  and  I suppose  it  is  necessary  to  explain,  for  the 
benefit  of  those  who  never  had  the  good  fortune  to  live  in  a prison, 
that  separate  confinement  means  that  the  convict  so  sentenced  is  to  be 
shut  up  in  his  cell  with  light  work,  sewing  or  picking  coir,  and  to  have 
one  hour’s  exercise  per  day,  which  consists  in  walking  in  single 
file,  with  long  distances  between  the  prisoners,  around  the  exercise 
yard,  and  then  turning  an  immense  crank,  which  pumps  water 
into  the  corridors.  The  men  stood  at  this  crank  facing  each  other, 
and  the  man  facing  me  was  a perfect  type  of  the  brutal  English 
jail-bird.  I had  noticed  the  fellow  in  the  chapel  for  three  morn- 
ings previously,  but  this  was  the  first  day  I had  taken  the  regular  exer- 
cise. 

He  was  a man  about  thirty-five  years  of  age,  with  a yellowish- white, 
corpse-like  face,  one  of  those  faces  on  which  whiskers  never  grow,  and 
only  a few  long  hairs  in  place  of  a mustache.  Of  course  he  was  closely 
shaven,  but  I felt  that  that  was  the  nature  of  his  whiskers  when 
“outside.”  I had  noticed,  sitting  behind  this  man  as  I did  in  chapel, 
almost  directly  in  the  rear  of  him,  that  I could  see  his  eyes.  He  had  a 
narrow,  straight  face,  and  there  was  a deep  scoop,  as  it  were,  taken  out 
of  each  bone  where  the  forehead  joined  the  cheek,  and  through  this 
scoop  I saw  the  eye  from  behind  even  more  clearly  than  when  standing 
in  front  of  the  man,  for  his  brows  overhung  in  a most  forbidding 
way. 

We  had  marched,  Indian  file,  from  our  cells  on  my  first  morning’s 
exercise,  and  had  taken  about  three  circuits  of  the  yard  when  the 
officer  shouted  in  a harsh,  unfriendly  tone,  the  prison  order, — “Halt ! 
File  on  to  crank,  No.  1.” 

No.  1 turned  toward  the  center  of  the  yard,  where  ran  the  series  of 
cranks  arranged  with  one  handle  for  two  men  facing  each  other. 
When  I got  to  my  place  I was  face  to  face  with  the  Corpse-man,  and 
when  he  turned  his  head  sideways,  I saw  his  left  eye  through  the  scoop 
in  his  cheekbone.  The  officers  stood  behind  me.  There  were  three  of 
them  to  the  gang  of  twenty  men,  and  their  duty  was  to  watch  so  that 
no  communication  took  place  between  the  prisoners.  I felt  that  the 
Corpse-man  wanted  to  talk  to  me,  but  he  kept  his  hidden  eyes  on  the 
officers  behind  me  and  turned  the  crank  without  the  movement  of  a 
muscle  of  his  face.  Presently,  I heard  a whisper,  “Mate,”  and  I knew 
it  must  be  he  who  spoke,  although  still  not  a muscle  seemed  to  move. 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


55 


I looked  at  him  and  waited.  He  said  again  in  the  same  mysterious 
manner  : “ Mate,  what’s  your  sentence  ? ” 

***** 

Millbank,  which  O’Reilly  in  his  “Moondyne”  calls  “a 
hideous  hive  of  order  and  commonplace  severity,  where  the 
flooding  sunlight  is  a derision,”  was  more  terrible  to  a man 
of  his  nature,  in  its  grim  regularity,  than  the  old-fashioned 
dungeon.  It  was  pulled  down  in  1875. 

On  the  expiration  of  their  term  of  solitary  confinement, 
in  April,  1867,  O’  Reilly,  Sergeant  McCarthy,  and  Corporal 
Chambers  were  sent  to  work  with  common  criminals  in  the 
prison  brickyards  at  Chatham.  They  were  chained  together, 
as  before,  and  marched  through  the  streets  for  the  delecta- 
tion of  the  populace.  At  Chatham  they  occupied  cells 
known  as  “end  cells,”  which  receive  ventilation  from  the 
hall  only,  where  the  sanitary  arrangements  of  the  prison 
are  situated.  The  ordinary  cells  are  ventilated  from  the 
outside. 

Here  O’  Reilly  and  two  others  attempted  to  escape,  and, 
being  recaptured,  were  put  on  bread  and  water  for  a month, 
and,  after  that,  chained  together  and  sent  to  Portsmouth. 
They  were  put  into  gangs,  with  the  worst  wretches,  to  do 
the  hardest  of  work.  They  had  to  wheel  brick  for  machines. 
Each  machine  will  make  a great  many  in  an  hour,  and  their 
time  and  numbers  were  so  arranged  that  from  morning  till 
night  they  could  rest  only  when  the  machine  did.  In 
Portsmouth  he  again  attempted  to  escape  ; but  failed,  and 
got  thirty  days  more  on  bread  and  water. 

He  and  his  companions  were  next  removed  in  chains  to 
Dartmoor — a place  that  has  associations  with  American 
history.  There,  on  April  6,  1815,  occurred  the  infamous 
massacre  of  American  prisoners,  shot  down  by  their  guards 
because  of  an  imaginary  plot  to  break  jail.  Dartmoor  is 
the  worst  of  all  the  English  prisons.  Only  a man  of 
the  strongest  constitution  can  hope  to  survive  the  rigor- 
ous climate  and  unremitting  hard  labor  of  the  dreary  prison, 
planted  in  the  middle  of  the  bleak  Devonshire  moor.  Two 
of  the  Irish  convicts  died  of  the  hardships  and  cruelties  there 


56 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


endured  by  them.  McCarthy  and  Chambers  underwent 
twelve  years  of  torture  in  this  and  other  prisons.  They 
were  released  in  1878  ; the  former  to  die  in  the  arms  of  his 
friends  within  a few  days  ; the  latter,  less  fortunate,  to  drag 
out  eleven  years  of  broken  health  and  unceasing  pain. 
Both  had  been  typical  specimens  of  manly  strength  when 
they  exchanged  the  British  uniform  for  the  convict’s  garb. 
O’Reilly,  little  given  to  talk  of  his  own  sufferings,  could 
not  restrain  his  indignation  when  speaking  of  the  studied 
brutality  inflicted  upon  his  comrades.  Writing  of  Chaim 
bers’s  death,  which  occurred  on  December  2,  1888,  he  thus 
recalls  the  Dartmoor  days  : 

Here  they  were  set  to  work  on  the  marsh,  digging  deep  drains,  and 
carrying  the  wet  peat  in  their  arms,  stacking  it  near  the  roadways  for 
removal.  For  months  they  toiled  in  the  drains,  which  were  only  two 
feet  wide,  and  sunk  ten  feet  in  the  morass.  It  was  a labor  too  hard  for 
brutes,  the  half-starved  men,  weakened  by  long  confinement,  standing 
in  water  from  a foot  to  two  feet  deep,  and  spading  the  heavy  peat  out 
of  the  narrow  cutting  over  their  heads.  Here  it  was  that  Chambers 
and  McCarthy  contracted  the  rheumatic  and  heart  diseases  which  fol- 
lowed them  to  the  end.  McCarthy  had  left  a wife  and  children  out  in 
the  world,  whose  woes  and  wanderings  through  all  the  years  had  racked 
his  heart  even  more  than  disease  had  his  limbs.  When  at  last  the  cell 
door  was  opened,  and  he  was  told  that  he  was  free,  the  unfortunate 
man,  reaching  toward  his  weeping  wife,  and  his  children  grown  out 
of  his  recollection,  fell  dead  almost  at  the  threshold  of  the  prison. 

Chambers  lingered  till  Sunday  morning,  his  body  a mass  of  aches 
and  diseases  that  agonized  every  moment  and  defied  and  puzzled  all  the 
skill  of  the  doctors.  “ They  don’t  know  what  is  the  matter  with  me,” 
he  said  with  a smile,  a few  days  ago,  to  a friend  who  called  at  the  hos- 
pital to  see  him,  “but  I can  tell  them.  They  never  saw  a man  before 
who  was  suffering  from  the  drains  of  Dartmoor.” 

O’Reilly  paints  the  same  dark  picture  again  in  a ficti- 
tious work,  whose  most  striking  feature  is  the  truthful 
sketch  of  prison  life  contributed  by  the  ex-convict. 

In  1884,  in  conjunction  with  Robert  Grant,  Fred.  J. 
Stimson(“  J.  S.  Dale”),  and  John  T.  Wheelwright,  he  wrote 
the  clever,  prophetical  novel  entitled,  “The  King’s  Men: 
a Tale  of  To-morrow.”  It  was  a story  of  the  reign  of 
“George  the  Fifth,”  and  of  the  coming  century.  There 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


57 


was  plenty  of  humor,  and  a good  deal  of  wisdom  disguised 
as  humor,  in  the  extravagant  pictures  drawn  by  the  four 
young  authors.  George  the  Fifth  had  fled  from  his  rebel- 
lious subjects  and  taken  refuge  in  America.  The  French 
republic,  “over  seventy  years  old,”  and  the  common- 
wealths of  Germany,  thirty- three  years  old,  the  aristocratic 
republic  of  Russia,  and  the  other  democratic  governments 
of  the  world  were  prosperous,  as  the  British  republic,  also, 
had  been  under  “ O’  Donovan  Rourke,  the  first  president, 
and  his  two  famous  ministers,  Jonathan  Sims  and  Richard 
Lincoln.”  Some  belated  royalists  plotted  to  overthrow  the 
republic  and  restore  the  monarchy.  Their  conspiracy 
came  to  naught,  and  they  were  sent  into  penal  servitude. 
O’Reilly  thus  sketches  the  fate  of  the  conspirators  : 

It  was  part  of  the  policy  of  Bagshaw’s  government  thus  to  march 
them  through  the  streets,  a spectacle,  like  a caravan  of  caged  beasts,  for 
the  populace.  Geoffrey  thought  to  himself,  curiously,  of  the  old  tri- 
umphs of  the  Roman  emperors  he  had  read  about  as  a school-boy. 
Then,  as  now,  the  people  needed  bread  and  loved  a show.  But  the 
people,  even  then,  had  caught  something  of  the  dignity  of  power. 
Silently  they  pressed  upon  the  sidewalks  and  thronged  the  gardens  by 
the  river.  Not  a voice  was  raised  in  mockery  of  these  few  men ; there 
is  something  in  the  last  extremity  of  misfortune  which  commands 
respect,  even  from  the  multitude.  And,  perhaps,  even  then,  the  first 
fruits  of  freedom  might  have  been  marked  in  their  manner ; and  mag- 
nanimity, the  first  virtue  of  liberty,  kept  the  London  rabble  hushed. 

The  convicts  were  sent  to  Dartmoor  Prison,  which  is 
graphically  described  by  its  old  inmate.  The  picture  is 
accurate,  barring  the  slight  poetical  license  appropriate  to 
a fiction  of  the  future  : 

In  the  center  of  its  wide  waste  of  barren  hills,  huge  granite  outcrop- 
pings, and  swampy  valleys,  the  gloomy  prison  of  Dartmoor  stood 
wrapped  in  mist,  one  dismal  morning  in  the  March  following  the  Roy- 
alist outbreak.  Its  two  centuries  of  unloved  existence  in  the  midst  of 
a wild  land  and  fitful  climate,  had  seared  every  wall-tower  and  gate- 
way with  lines  and  patches  of  decay  and  discoloration.  Originally 
built  of  brown  stone,  the  years  had  deepened  the  tint  almost  to  black- 
ness in  the  larger  stretches  of  outer  wall  and  unwindowed  gable. 

On  this  morning  the  dark  walls  dripped  with  the  weeping  atmos- 
phere, and  the  voice  of  the  huge  prison  bell  in  the  main  yard  sounded 
distant  and  strange,  like  a storm-bell  in  a fog  at  sea. 


58 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


Through  the  thick  drizzle  of  the  early  morning  the  convicts  were 
marched  in  gangs  to  their  daily  tasks ; some  to  build  new  walls  within 
the  prison  precincts,  some  to  break  stone  in  the  round  yard,  encircled 
by  enormous  iron  railings  fifteen  feet  high,  some  to  the  great  kitchen 
of  the  prison,  and  to  the  different  workshops.  About  one  third  of  the 
prisoners  marched  outside  the  walls  by  the  lower  entrance;  for  the 
prison  stands  on  a hill,  at  the  foot  of  which  stretches  the  most  forsaken 
and  grisly  waste  in  all  Dartmoor. 

The  task  of  the  convicts  for  two  hundred  years  had  been  the  recla- 
mation of  this  wide  waste,  which  was  called  “The  Farm.”  The  French 
prisoners  of  war,  taken  in  the  Napoleonic  wars  that  ended  with  Waterloo, 
had  dug  trenches  to  drain  the  waste.  The  American  prisoners  of  the 
War  of  1812  had  laid  roadways  through  the  marsh.  ‘ The  Irish  rebels 
of  six  generations  had  toiled  in  the  tear-scalded  footsteps  of  the  French 
and  American  captives.  And  all  the  time  the  main  or  “stock ” supply 
of  English  criminals,  numbering  usually  about  four  hundred  men,  had 
spent  their  weary  years  in  toiling  and  broiling  at  “ The  Farm.” 

Standing  at  the  lower  gate  of  the  prison,  from  which  a steep  road 
descended  to  the  marsh  looking  over  “ The  Farm,”  it  was  hard  to  see 
anything  like  a fair  return  for  such  continued  and  patient  labor.  Deep 
trenches  filled  with  claret-colored  water  drained  innumerable  patches 
of  sickly  vegetation.  About  a hundred  stunted  fruit  trees  and  as  many 
bedraggled  haystacks  were  all  that  broke  the  surface  line. 

To  the  left  of  the  gate,  on  the  sloping  side  of  the  hill,  was  a quad- 
rangular space  of  about  thirty  by  twenty  yards,  round  which  was  built 
a low  wall  of  evidently  great  antiquity.  The  few  courses  of  stones 
were  huge  granite  bowlders  and  slabs  torn  and  rolled  from  the  hillside. 
There  was  no  gateway  or  break  in  the  square ; to  enter  the  inclosure 
one  must  climb  over  the  wall,  which  was  easy  enough  to  do. 

Inside  the  square  was  a rough  heap  of  granite,  a cairn,  gray  with 
lichens,  in  the  center  of  which  stood,  or  rather  leaned,  a tall,  square 
block  of  granite,  like  a dolmen.  So  great  was  the  age  of  this  strange 
obelisk  that  the  lichens  had  encrusted  it  to  the  top.  The  stone  had 
once  stood  upright;  but  it  now  leaned  toward  the  marsh,  the  cairn 
having  slowly  yielded  on  the  lower  side. 

***** 

Geoffrey,  who  had  been  employed  in  the  office  of  the  Governor  of 
the  prison,  and  who  had,  on  hearing  this  old  monument  was  to  be  re- 
paired, volunteered  on  behalf  of  the  three  others  to  do  the  work,  now 
told  the  story  of  the  old  monument  as  he  had  learned  it  from  the  prison 
records  which  he  had  been  transcribing  : 

“In  the  wars  of  the  Great  Napoleon,”  Geoffrey  said,  “the  French 
prisoners  captured  by  England  were  confined  in  hulks  on  the  seacoast 
till  the  hulks  overflowed.  Then  this  prison  was  built,  and  filled  with 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


59 


unfortunate  Frenchmen.  In  1812  the  young  republic  of  America  went 
to  war  with  England,  and  hundreds  of  American  captives  were  added 
to  the  Frenchmen.  During  the  years  of  their  confinement  scores  of 
these  poor  fellows  died,  and  one  day  the  Americans  mutinied,  and  then 
other  scores  were  shot  down  in  the  main  yard.  This  field  was  the 
graveyard  of  those  prisoners,  and  here  the  strangers  slept  for  over  half 
a century,  till  their  bones  were  washed  out  of  the  hillside  by  the  rain- 
storms. There  happened  to  be  in  Dartmoor  at  that  time  a party  of 
Irish  rebels,  and  they  asked  permission  to  collect  the  bones  and  bury 
them  securely.  The  Irishmen  raised  this  cairn  and  obelisk  to  the 
Americans  and  Frenchmen,  and  now,  after  another  hundred  years,  we 
are  sent  to  repair  their  loving  testimonial.” 

“ It  is  an  interesting  story,”  said  Featherstone. 

“ A sad  story  for  old  men,”  said  the  Duke. 

“ A brave  story  for  boys,”  said  Mr.  Sydney  ; “I  could  lift  this  obe- 
lisk itself  for  sympathy.” 

They  went  on,  working  and  chatting  in  low  tones,  till  an  exclama- 
tion from  Sydney  made  them  look  up.  Sydney  was  on  top  of  the  cairn, 
scraping  the  lichens  from  the  obelisk.  The  moss  was  hard  to  cut,  and 
had  formed  a crust,  layer  on  layer,  half  an  inch  in  thickness. 

“ What  is  it,  my  dear  Sydney  ? ” asked  the  Duke. 

“ An  inscription  !”  cried  Sydney,  scraping  away.  “ An  inscription 
nearly  a hundred  years  old.  I have  uncovered  the  year — see,  1867.” 
“Ay,”  said  Geoffrey,  “ that  was  the  year  the  Irish  were  here.” 
Featherstone  had  gone  to  Sydney’s  assistance,  and  with  the  aid  of  a 
sharp  flint  soon  uncovered  the  whole  inscription.  It  ran  thus  : 


Sacred  to  the  Memory  of  the 

FRENCH  AND  AMERICAN  PRISONERS 
OF  WAR, 

Who  died  in  Dartmoor  Prison  during  the 
Years  1811—1 6. 

Dulce  et  decorum  est  pro  patria  mori. 

Underneath  were  the  words,  “ Erected  1867.” 

There  is  no  fiction  in  this  last  incident.  O’Reilly  and 
his  fellow-prisoners  actually  erected  such  a cairn  over  the 
bones  of  the  massacred  Americans,  which  the  prison  pigs 
were  rooting  up. 


00 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


Again  he  recalls  his  Dartmoor  life  in  the  letter  from 
“ James  Sydney,”  one  of  the  royalist  prisoners,  who 
remains  behind  in  Dartmoor  after  his  comrades  have 
escaped.  The  letter  reads : 

Since  your  escape  I have  been  under  the  strictest  surveillance,  and 
as  I have  recovered  from  my  gout  I have  been  set  to  work  upon  the 
ignoble  task  of  breaking  stones  into  small  bits  with  a hammer.  I am 
known  as  No.  5,  and  am  called  by  no  other  name.  Imagine  me,  who 
found  it  so  difficult  to  look  out  for  Number  One,  having  to  care  for 
No.  5.  Indeed,  I should  find  it  well-nigh  impossible  were  it  not  for 
the  assistance  which  I have  from  the  warders  and  turnkeys,  who  look 
after  me  with  a touching  solicitude.  No  physician  could  have  kept  me 
to  a regimen  so  suitable  for  my  health  as  strictly  as  they.  You  remem- 
ber how  I used  to  enjoy  lying  abed  in  the  morning.  What  a pleasure 
it  was  to  wake  up,  to  feel  that  the  busy  world  was  astir  around  you, 
and  lie  half  awake,  half  asleep,  stretching  your  toes  into  cool  recesses 
of  a soft,  luxurious  bed.  But  it  made  me  idle,  very  idle.  But  now  I 
must  be  off  my  hard  cot,  be  dressed  and  have  my  cot  made  up  by  half- 
past five ; then  I breakfast  off  a piece  of  bread,  washed  down  with  a pint 
of  unsweetened  rye  coffee,  innocent  of  milk,  drunk  au  naturel  out  of  a 
tin  pail.  And  how  I wish  for  my  after-breakfast  cigar  and  the  Times , 
as  I put  my  hands  upon  a fellow-convict’s  shoulder  and  march  in  slow 
procession  to  my  task.  The  work  of  breaking  a large  piece  of  stone 
into  smaller  bits  with  a hammer  is  not  an  intellectual  one  ; but  it  has 
got  me  into  tolerable  training  ; I have  lost  twenty  pounds  already,  and 
am,  as  we  used  to  say  at  the  university,  as  “hard  as  nails.”  I am 
afraid  that  my  old  trousers,  which  my  tailor  used  to  let  out  year  by 
year,  would  be  a world  too  large  for  my  shrunk  shanks  now.  I dine  at 
noon,  as  you  remember,  and  for  the  first  time  in  my  life  I do  not  dress 
for  dinner  ; indeed,  a white  cravat  and  a dress  coat  would  be  inappro- 
priate when  one  sits  down  to  bean  porridge  and  boiled  beef  served  in 
the  same  tin  plate.  But  I have  a good  appetite  after  my  pulverizing  of 
the  morning,  and  I am  not  compelled  to  set  the  table  in  a roar  under 
duress.  I am  surprised  what  good  things  I think  of  now  that  I am  not 
expected  to  and  have  no  one  to  whom  to  say  them.  Jawkins  would 
double  my  salary  could  he  get  me  out.  Rye  coffee  is  a poor  substitute 
for  Chambertin,  but  it  does  not  aggravate  my  gout.  After  dinner  I 
return  to  my  stone-breaking,  and  feel  with  delight  my  growing  biceps 
muscle,  and  after  my  supper,  which  is  monotonously  like  my  breakfast, 
I tackle  the  tracts  which  are  left  with  me  by  kindly  souls.  They  are  of 
a class  of  literature  which  I have  neglected  since  childhood,  having,  as 
you  may  remember,  a leaning  toward  “ facetiae.”  In  fact,  since  my 
great-aunt’s  withdrawal  to  another  world,  where  it  may  be  hoped  that 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


61 


the  stones  are  more  brittle  and  the  coffee  better,  I have  seen  none.  I 
cannot  say  that  I have  been  comforted  by  the  tracts,  but  I have  been 
interested  by  them,  and  I spend  the  brief  hours  of  leisure  which  are 
vouchsafed  to  me  in  annotating  my  editions. 

Few  who  read  this  light  and  good-humored  complaint 
of  the  imaginary  royalist  conspirator  can  have  conceived 
any  idea  of  the  horrors  actually  endured  and  silently  for- 
given by  its  victim.  I would  gladly  dismiss  the  painful 
story,  but  other  pens  have  told  it  all ; and  the  world  that 
knew  John  Boyle  O’Reilly  as  the  refined,  courtly  gentle- 
man and  the  magnanimous  Christian,  should  know  also  in 
what  a rough  school  he  learned  to  be  gentle — through  what 
cruel  tortures  he  learned  to  be  merciful. 

If  Dartmoor  had  been  deliberately  chosen  and  systemati- 
cally conducted  as  an  engine  of  torture,  it  could  not  have 
better  served  its  purpose  of  breaking  body  and  mind, 
heart  and  soul.  The  prison  cells  were  of  iron,  seven  feet 
long  by  four  feet  wide,  and  a little  over  seven  feet  high  : 
ventilated  by  an  opening  of  two  or  three  inches  at  the  bot- 
tom of  the  door,  some  of  them  having  a few  holes  for  the 
escape  of  foul  air  at  the  top  of  the  cell  walls.  They  were 
oppressively  warm  in  summer,  and  dismally  cold  in  winter. 
“Fresh”  air  came  from  the  corridors,  whence  also  came 
the  only  light  enjoyed  by  the  inmates,  through  a pane  of 
thick,  semi-opaque  glass. 

The  food  was  so  bad  that  only  starving  men,  such  as  they 
were,  could  stomach  it.  It  was  often  too  filthy  even  for 
their  appetites.  “It  was  quite  a common  occurrence  in 
Dartmoor,”  says  Michael  Davitt,  “ for  men  to  be  reported 
and  punished  for  eating  candles,  boot-oil,  and  other  repul- 
sive articles  ; but,  notwithstanding  that  a highly  offensive 
smell  is  purposely  given  to  prison  candles  to  prevent  their 
being  eaten  instead  of  burnt,  men  are  driven  by  a system 
of  half-starvation  into  animal-like  voracity,  and  anything 
that  a dog  could  eat  is  nowise  repugnant  to  their  taste.  I 
have  even  seen  men  eating — ” but  the  heart  sickens  at  the 
relation  of  what  Mr.  Davitt  has  seen,  and  we  cannot  but 
think  with  horror  of  such  a degradation  being  set  before 


62 


JOHN  BOYLE  o’KEILLY. 


such  men  as  these, — before  any  creature  made  in  God’s 
image  and  likeness. 

The  work  was  hard  enough  at  best.  It  was  wantonly 
made  more  repulsive  by  the  inhumanity  of  the  jailers  ; and 
the  jailers  did  not  act  without  authority.  The  putrefying 
bones— refuse  of  the  prison — had  to  be  pounded  into  dust ; 
and  the  place  chosen  for  this  offensive  work  was  a shed  on 
the  brink  of  the  prison  cesspool.  The  floor  of  the  “bone- 
shed,”  as  it  was  called,  was  some  three  feet  below  the 
outside  ground,  and  on  a level  with  the  noisome  cesspool. 
The  stench  of  this  work-room  and  the  foul  air  of  the 
cells,  combined  with  the  bad  and  insufficient  food,  tended 
to  undermine  the  health  of  the  wretched  prisoners  ; for, 
observe,  they  were  set  to  work  on  the  wet  moors  outside, 
during  the  cold  winter,  and  in  the  foul  bone-shed  during 
the  stifling  summer  days ! Siberia  may  have  sharper 
tortures,  but  none  more  revolting  in  cold,  deliberate 
cruelty,  than  those  of  Dartmoor. 

There  was  other  work,  plenty  of  it,  in  the  Dartmoor 
institution,  delving,  building,  and  toiling  in  various  ways. 
The  men  were  not  allowed  to  be  idle  as  long  as  they  were 
able  to  lift  a hand  or  foot.  When  Davitt  came  out  of  Dart- 
moor, having  entered  prison  a healthy  man  of  normal 
weight,  he  weighed  122  pounds.  “Not,  I think,”  he  says, 
“ a proper  weight  for  a man  six  feet  high  and  at  the  age  of 
thirty-one.” 

McCarthy  came  out  to  die,  and  Chambers  to  linger  a 
wreck  for  the  remainder  of  his  wasted  life. 

In  short,  the  political  prisoners  were  systematically  sub- 
jected to  harsher  treatment  than  the  hardened  criminals 
with  whom  they  were  associated ; and  this  was  done  as  a 
fixed  policy  of  the  Government,  to  make  treason  odious. 
Being  men  of  natural  refinement,  they  felt  more  keenly  than 
the  common  felon  the  indignity  of  having  to  strip  and  be 
searched  four  times  a day  ; and,  as  they  were  unwise 
enough  to  show  this  reluctance,  the  coarse  warders  of  the 
prison  took  an  especial  delight  in  inflicting  it  upon  them. 

O’Reilly  was  a “good”  prisoner  ; that  is,  he  took  care 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


63 


to  save  himself  as  far  as  possible  from  the  indignities  of 
his  condition  by  paying  strict  obedience  to  the  prison  rules  ; 
but  he  never  despaired  of  effecting  his  escape,  nor  neglected 
any  promising  opportunity  to  that  end.  During  his  Dart- 
moor term  he  made  his  third  break  for  freedom. 

The  authorities  were  accustomed  to  station  sentries  at 
certain  elevated  points  on  the  moor,  to  watch  the  drain- 
cutting parties  of  prisoners,  and  to  signal  the  approach  of 
a fog  which  they  could  see  rolling  in  from  seaward.  Upon 
the  signals  being  given,  the  warders  would  summon  the 
working  parties  in  the  drains  and  gather  them  all  within  the 
prison  walls.  O’Reilly  was  working  in  a gang  of  drain- 
diggers  in  charge  of  one  Captain  Hodges.  With  him  was 
another  Fenian  ex-soldier,  Michael  Lavin,  who  tells  an  in- 
teresting story  of  his  comrade’ s desperate  break  for  liberty. 
O’ Reilly  had  secretly  made  himself  a suit  of  clothes  from 
one  of  the  coarse  sheets  with  which  each  prisoner  was  sup- 
plied, skillfully  arranging  his  bundle  of  bedding  so  that  the 
sheet  was  not  missed.  He  told  Lavin  one  day  that  he  had 
made  up  his  mind  to  escape.  Accordingly,  on  the  first  ap- 
pearance of  an  opportune  fog,  he  hid  himself  in  the  drain 
when  his  fellow-prisoners  obeyed  the  warders’  summons  to 
return  to  the  prison  yard.  Before  his  absence  was  discov- 
ered he  had  made  his  way  well  out  of  the  bounds.  Search 
was  immediately  instituted,  but  he  evaded  pursuit  during 
two  days  and  nights. 

Once  he  was  so  closely  followed  that  he  took  refuge  on 
the  top  of  an  old  house,  and  lay  concealed  behind  the 
smoke-stack  until  the  guards  had  gone  by.  Thence  he 
dropped  into  a dyke  communicating  with  the  river,  intend- 
ing at  nightfall  to  swim  the  latter  in  the  hope  of  making  his 
way  to  the  seacoast.  For  a long  time  he  lay  thus  hidden, 
holding  to  the  bank  by  one  hand,  while  the  guards  patrolled 
overhead  without  perceiving  him.  An  officer  stationed 
some  distance  off  closely  watched  the  place  with  a field- 
glass.  His  suspicions  were  aroused  by  perceiving  a ripple 
on  the  water,  and  he  communicated  with  the  guards,  who 
thereupon  discovered  the  fugitive  and  brought  him  back  to 


64 


JOHN  BOYLE  o’KEILLY. 


prison.  For  this  offense  he  was  given  twenty-eight  days  in 
the  punishment  cells,  his  only  nourishment  being  bread  and 
water,  save  on  every  fourth  day,  when  full  rations  were 
served.  During  all  the  time  of  his  flight  he  had  not  eaten 
an  ounce  of  food. 

Four  months  were  spent  by  O’Reilly  in  this  dismal 
prison-house.  Then  came  the  welcome  order  of  transfer  to 
Portland,  preparatory  to  transportation  beyond  the  seas. 
While  any  change  from  the  living  hell  of  Dartmoor  could 
not  but  be  welcome  to  its  inmates,  the  decree  of  transpor- 
tation did  not  apply  to  all  of  the  Irish  convicts.  McCarthy 
and  Chambers  were  doomed  to  fret  their  souls  away  under 
the  great  and  petty  tortures  of  their  English  dungeons. 
For  O’Reilly  there  was  the  boon  of  banishment  to  the 
furthest  end  of  the  earth,  an  inhospitable  wilderness  ; and 
separation,  probably  forever,  from  the  land  of  his  birth  and 
love,  from  the  comrades  whom  a community  of  suffering 
had  endeared  to  him.  But  it  was  a boon,  for  it  was  a 
change,  and  any  change  was  welcome  to  one  in  such  a 
plight  as  his.  In  an  interview,  published  a few  years  ago, 
he  thus  told  of  how  the  good  news  came  to  him  : 

In  October,  ’67,  there  were  in  Dartmoor  prison  six  convicts,  who, 
to  judge  from  their  treatment,  must  have  been  infinitely  darker  crimi- 
nals than  even  the  murderous-looking  wretches  around  them.  These 
men  were  distinguished  by  being  allotted  an  extra  amount  of  work, 
hunger,  cold,  and  curses,  together  with  the  thousand  bitter  aids  that 
are  brought  to  bear  in  the  enforcement  of  English  prison  discipline. 
At  the  time  I now  recall,  three  of  those  men  were  down  in  the  social 
depths — indeed,  with  one  exception,  they  were  in  prison  for  life  ; and 
even  in  prison  were  considered  as  the  most  guilty  and  degraded  there. 
This  unusually  hard  course  was  the  result  of  a dream  they  had  been 
dreaming  for  years, — dreaming  as  they  wheeled  the  heavy  brick  cars, 
dreaming  as  they  hewed  the  frozen  granite,  dreaming  as  they  breathed 
on  their  cold  fingers  in  the  dark  penal  cells,  dreaming  in  the  deep 
swamp-drain,  dreaming  awake  and  asleep,  always  dreaming  of  Lib- 
erty ! That  thought  had  never  left  them.  They  had  attempted  to 
realize  it,  and  had  failed.  But  the  wild,  stealthy  thought  would  come 
back  into  their  hearts  and  be  cherished  there.  This  was  the  result, — 
hunger,  cold,  and  curses.  The  excitement  was  dead.  There  was  nought 
left  now  but  patience  and  submission.  I have  said  that  the  excitement, 


^ - — ^ 

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tj_  tut  ChnU-vn  V J »*.  r~x  « y~:  «^T~ 

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v-  f ^ ’CX 

ft*~^t*y?,  j-  <w?  M ^ ctm- 
yb 

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m ujc  * ^ »$■  * - 7:1.^ : k. 

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(A*  *-H  w,/^  ,?  o L«(o~Vu^h 

**  «*■  * 


FAC  SIMILE  LETTER  WRITTEN  IN  PRISON  — ORIGINAL  IN  POSSESSION  OF 
MRS.  MERRY  OF  LIVERPOOL,  ENGLAND. 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


65 


even  of  failure,  was  dead  ; but  another  and  stronger  excitement  took 
its  place.  A rumor  went  through  the  prison, — in  the  weirdly  mysteri- 
ous way  in  which  rumors  do  go  through  a prison.  However  it  came  is 
a mystery,  but  there  did  come  a rumor  to  the  prison,  even  to  the  dark 
cells,  of  a ship  sailing  for  Australia  ! 

Australia  ! the  ship  ! Another  chance  for  the  old  dreams  ; and  the 
wild  thought  was  wilder  than  ever,  and  not  half  so  stealthy.  Down  the 
corridor  came  the  footsteps  again.  The  keys  rattled,  doors  opened,  and 
in  five  minutes  we  had  double  irons  on  our  arms,  and  were  chained 
together  by  a bright,  strong  chain.  We  did  not  look  into  each  other’s 
faces  ; we  had  learned  to  know  what  the  others  were  thinking  of  with- 
out speaking.  We  had  a long  ride  to  the  railway  station,  in  a villain- 
ous Dartmoor  conveyance,  and  then  a long  ride  in  the  railway  cars  to 
Portland.  It  was  late  at  night  when  we  arrived  there,  and  got  out  of 
harness.  The  ceremony  of  receiving  convicts  from  another  prison  is 
amusing  and  “racy  of  the  soil.”  To  give  an  idea  of  it,  it  is  enough  to 
say  that  every  article  of  clothing  which  a prisoner  wears  must  at  once 
go  back  to  the  prison  whence  he  came.  It  may  be  an  hour,  or  two,  or 
more,  before  a single  article  is  drawn  from  the  stores  of  the  receiving 
prison, — during  which  time  the  felon  is  supremely  primitive.  To  the 
prison  officials  this  seems  highly  amusing  ; but  to  me,  looking  at  it 
with  the  convict’s  eye  and  feelings,  the  point  of  the  joke  was  rather 
obscure. 

Next  day  we  went  to  exercise,  not  to  work.  We  joined  a party  of 
twenty  of  our  countrymen,  who  had  arrived  in  Portland  one  day  before 
us.  They  had  come  from  Ireland — had  only  been  in  prison  for  a few 
months.  They  had  news  for  us.  One  of  them,  an  old  friend,  told  me 
he  had  left  my  brother  in  prison  in  Ireland,  waiting  trial  as  a Fenian.* 
Many  others  got  news  just  as  cheering.  A week  passed  away.  Then 
came  the  old  routine, — old  to  us,  but  new  and  terrible  to  the  men  from 
Ireland, — double  irons  and  chains.  This  time  there  were  twenty  men 
on  each  chain,  the  political  prisoners  separate  from  the  criminals. 
“Forward  there  ! ” and  we  dragged  each  other  to  the  esplanade  of  the 
prison.  It  was  a gala  day,— a grand  parade  of  the  convicts.  They 
were  drawn  up  in  line, — a horrible  and  insulting  libel  on  an  army,— 
and  the  governor,  and  the  doctors  of  the  prison  and  ship  reviewed 
them.  There  were  two  or  three  lounging  in  the  prison  yard  that  day, 
who,  I remember  well,  looked  strangely  out  of  place  there.  They  had 
honest,  bronzed  faces  and  careless  sailor’s  dress, — the  mates  and  boat- 
swain of  the  Hougoumont , who  had  come  ashore  to  superintend  the 
embarkation. 


* This  brother  was  William,  the  eldest  of  the  family  ; he  died  ere  John  had 
made  his  escape. 


66 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


The  review  was  over.  The  troops — Heaven  forgive  me ! — formed  in 
columns  of  chains,  and  marched  to  the  steamer  which  was  waiting  to 
convey  them  to  the  transport.  Our  chain  was  in  the  extreme  rear. 
Just  as  we  reached  the  gangway  to  go  on  board,  a woman’s  piercing 
shriek  rose  up  from  the  crowd  on  the  wharf;  a young  girl  rushed 
wildly  out,  and  threw  herself,  weeping  and  sobbing,  on  the  breast  of  a 
man  in  our  chain,  poor  Thomas  Dunne.  She  was  his  sister.  She  had 
come  from  Dublin  to  see  him  before  he  sailed  away.  They  would  not 
let  her  see  him  in  prison,  so  she  had  come  there  to  see  him  in  his 
chains.  Oh ! may  God  keep  me  from  ever  seeing  another  scene  like 
that  which  we  all  stood  still  to  gaze  at;  even  the  merciless  officials  for 
a moment  hesitated  to  interfere.  Poor  Dunne  could  only  stoop  his  head 
and  kiss  his  sister — his  arms  were  chained ; and  that  loving,  heart-broken 
girl,  worn  out  by  grief,  clung  to  his  arms  and  his  chains,  as  they  dragged 
her  away  ; and  when  she  saw  him  pushed  rudely  to  the  gangway, 
she  raised  her  voice  in  a wild  cry : “ Oh,  God ! oh,  God ! ” as  if  reproach- 
ing Him  who  willed  such  things  to  pass.  Prom  the  steamer’s  deck  we 
saw  her  still  watching  tirelessly,  and  we  tried  to  say  words  of  comfort 
to  that  brother — her  brother  and  ours.  He  knew  she  was  alone,  and 
had  no  friends  in  wide  England.  Thank  God,  he  is  a free  man  now  in 
a free  country ! 

The  steamer  backed  her  paddles  alongside  the  high  ship  and  we  went 
on  board,  the  criminals  having  gone  first.  Our  chains  were  knocked 
off  on  the  soldier-lined  decks,  and  we  were  ordered  to  go  below.  The 
sides  of  the  main  hatchway  were  composed  of  massive  iron  bars,  and, 
as  we  went  down,  the  prisoners  within  clutched  the  bars  and  looked 
eagerly  through,  hoping,  perhaps,  to  see  a familiar  face.  As  I stood  in 
that  hatchway,  looking  at  the  wretches  glaring  out,  I realized  more 
than  ever  before  the  terrible  truth  that  a convict  ship  is  a floating  hell. 
The  forward  hold  was  dark,  save  the  yellow  light  of  a few  ship’s  lamps. 
There  were  320  criminal  convicts  in  there,  and  the  sickening  thought 
occurred  to  us,  are  our  friends  in  there  among  them?  There  swelled 
up  a hideous  diapason  from  that  crowd  of  wretches ; the  usual  prison 
restraint  was  removed,  and  the  reaction  was  at  its  fiercest  pitch. 

Such  a din  of  diabolical  sounds  no  man  ever  heard.  We  hesitated 
before  entering  the  low-barred  door  to  the  hold,  unwilling  to  plunge 
into  the  seething  den.  As  we  stood  thus,  a tall,  gaunt  man  pushed  his 
way  through  the  criminal  crowd  to  the  door.  He  stood  within,  and, 
stretching  out  his  arms,  said:  “ Come,  we  are  waiting  for  you.”  I did 
not  know  the  face  ; I knew  the  voice.  It  was  my  old  friend  and  com- 
rade, Keating. 

We  followed  him  through  the  crowd  to  a door  leading  amidships 
from  the  criminal  part  of  the  ship.  This  door  was  opened  by  another 
gaunt  man  within,  and  we  entered.  Then  the  door  was  closed  and  we 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES.  67 

were  with  our  friends— our  brothers.  Great  God!  what  a scene  that 
was,  and  how  vividly  it  arises  to  my  mind  now ! 

The  sixty-three  political  prisoners  on  the  Hougoumont 
were  the  first  lot  that  had  been  sent  to  Australia  since  the 
Irish  uprising  of  1848,  nor  have  any  others  been  sent  since 
her  voyage.  Of  these  prisoners  some  fifteen  had  been  sol- 
diers and  were,  therefore,  classed  and  placed  among  the 
criminals.  This  would  have  been  a greater  hardship  but 
for  the  fact  that  some  of  the  soldiers  in  the  ship’s  guard 
belonged  to  regiments  in  which  certain  of  the  prisoners  had 
served,  and,  with  comrade  sympathy,  alleviated  their  lot 
as  far  as  possible. 

All  but  one  or  two  of  the  guards  were  friendly  to  the  ex- 
soldiers, who  were  allowed  to  occupy  the  quarters  of  the 
political  prisoners  by  day,  but  forced  to  pass  tho  night  with 
the  criminals  in  the  fore  part  of  the  ship.  O’  Reilly  was 
made  an  exception,  through  the  good-nature  of  the  guards, 
who  always  allowed  him,  though  against  the  rules,  to 
sling  his  hammock  in  the  compartment  on  the  lower  deck 
below  the  cabin,  where  the  political  prisoners  slept.  He 
received  many  kindnesses  also  from  the  ship’s  chaplain, 
Father  Delaney,  who  furnished  the  paper  and  writing 
materials  for  a remarkable  periodical  entitled  “ The  Wild 
Goose.”  The  name  had  a significance  for  Irishmen.  The 
soldiers  of  Sarsfield,  who  took  service  in  the  French  and 
other  foreign  armies  on  the  failure  of  their  country’s 
effort  for  liberty,  w’ere  called  “ The  Wild  Geese.”  Many 
a sad  or  stirring  song  has  told  the  story  of  their  exile,  and 
their  valor.  “The  Wild  Goose”  was  edited  by  John 
Boyle  O’Reilly,  John  Flood,  Denis  B.  Cashman,  and  J. 
Edward  O’ Kelly.  It  was  a weekly  publication,  Mr.  Cash- 
man  writing  the  ornamental  heading  entwined  with  sham- 
rocks, and  the  various  sub-heads,  as  well  as  contributing  to 
its  contents.  Saturday  was  publishing  day.  On  Sunday 
afternoon  O’  Reilly  read  it  aloud  to  his  comrades  as  they 
sat  around  their  berths  below  decks.  In  its  columns  first 
appeared  his  stirring  narrative  poem,  “ The  Flying  Dutch- 
man,” written  off  the  Cape  of  Good  Hope.  “We  pub- 


68 


JOHN  BOYLE  O'REILLY. 


lislied  seven  weekly  numbers  of  it,”  he  says.  “ Amid  the 
dim  glare  of  the  lamp  the  men,  at  night,  would  group 
strangely  on  extemporized  seats.  The  yellow  light  fell 
down  on  the  dark  forms,  throwing  a ghastly  glare  on  the 
pale  faces  of  the  men  as  they  listened  with  blazing  eyes  to 
Davis’s  ‘Fontenoy,’  or  the  ‘ Clansman’s  Wild  Address  to 
Shane’s  Head’  ! Ah,  that  is  another  of  the  grand  picture 
memories  that  come  only  to  those  who  deal  with  life’s 
stern  realities  ! ” 

Every  night  the  exiles,  Catholic  and  Protestant,  for 
there  were  men  of  both  faiths  in  their  ranks,  joined  in  one 
prayer,  which  ran  as  follows  : 

“ O God,  who  art  the  arbiter  of  the  destiny  of  nations, 
and  who  rulest  the  world  in  Thy  great  wisdom,  look  down, 
we  beseech  Thee,  from  Thy  holy  place,  on  the  sufferings  of 
our  poor  country.  Scatter  her  enemies,  O Lord,  and  con- 
found their  evil  projects.  Hear  us,  O God,  hear  the  earnest 
cry  of  our  people,  and  give  them  strength  and  fortitude  to 
dare  and  suffer  in  their  holy  cause.  Send  her  help,  O Lord ! 
from  Thy  holy  place.  And  from  Zion  protect  her.  Amen.” 

But  if  the  political  prisoners  were  able  to  forget  their 
misery  for  a time  in  this  way,  there  was  no  such  surcease  for 
the  seething  mass  of  crime  that  peopled  the  forward  hold. 

“Only  those,”  says  O’Reilly  in  “Moondyne,”  “who 
have  stood  within  the  bars,  and  heard  the  din  of  devils  and 
the  appalling  sounds  of  despair,  blended  in  a diapason 
that  made  every  hatch-mouth  a vent  of  hell,  can  imagine 
the  horrors  of  the  hold  of  a convict  ship.” 

The  punishment  cell  was  seldom  empty  ; its  occupants  as 
they  looked  through  its  bars  at  the  deck  “saw,  strapped 
to  the  foremast,  a black  gaff  or  spar  with  iron  rings,  which, 
when  the  spar  was  lowered  horizontally,  corresponded  to 
rings  screwed  into  the  deck.  This  was  the  triangle,  where 
the  unruly  convicts  were  triced  up  and  flogged  every  morn- 
ing. Above  this  triangle,  tied  round  the  foremast,  was  a 
new  and  very  fine  hempen  rope,  leading  away  to  the  end  of 
the  foreyard.  This  was  the  ultimate  appeal,  the  law’s  last 
terrible  engine — the  halter — which  swung  mutineers  and 
murderers  out  over  the  hissing  sea  to  eternity.” 


CHAPTER  IV. 


Prison  life  in  Australia — O’Reilly  Transferred  from  Fremantle  to  Bun- 
bury — Cruel  Punishment  for  a Technical  Offense — Daring  Plan  to 
Escape — Free  at  Last  under  the  American  Flag. 

AT  length,  the  long  and  dreary  voyage  ended,  and  the 
old  Hougoumont  dropped  anchor  in  the  roadstead  of 
Fremantle  at  three  o’clock  in  the  morning  of  January  10, 
1868.  Her  passengers  could  see,  high  above  the  little  town 
and  the  woodland  about  it,  the  great  white  stone  prison 
which  represents  Fremantle’s  reason  for  existence.  It 
was  “The  Establishment”  ; that  is  to  say,  the  Govern- 
ment; that  is  to  say,  the  advanced  guard  of  Christian 
civilization  in  the  wild  Bush.  The  native  beauty  of  the 
place  is  marred  by  the  straggling  irregularity  of  the  town, 
as  it  is  blighted  by  the  sight,  and  defiled  by  the  touch,  of 
the  great  criminal  establishment. 

The  first  official  function  was  the  reading  of  the  rules. 
What  struck  O’  Reilly  most  in  that  long  code  was  the  start- 
ling peroration  to  the  enumeration  of  so  many  offenses, — 
“ the  penalty  of  which  is  Death  ! ” 

After  this  ceremony  the  prisoners  were  separated,  the 
sheep  from  the  goats,  the  criminals  going  ashore  first  to 
swell  the  population  of  four  or  five  hundred  of  their  kind 
already  there.  Curiously  enough,  the  arrival  of  the  Hou- 
goumont was  made  the  subject  of  a quasi-religious  contro- 
versy in  the  settlement,  the  Protestants  murmuring  at  the 
arrival  of  so  many  political  prisoners.  They  did  not  com- 
plain so  much  of  the  criminal  convicts  ; but  their  aversion 
to  the  Irishmen  was  reconsidered  on  better  acquaintance. 

Father  Lynch  was  the  Catholic  chaplain  of  Fremantle 
prison,  and  one  of  the  many  who  took  an  immediate  liking 
to  young  O’Reilly.  Although  the  latter,  like  the  other 

69 


70 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


military  convicts,  had  been  separated  from  his  fellows  and 
assigned  to  the  gang  of  criminals,  Father  Lynch  managed 
to  have  him  detailed  as  an  assistant  in  the  library.  The 
political  prisoners  who  had  not  been  soldiers  were  sent  to 
Perth,  twelve  miles  away,  to  work  in  the  road-gangs  or 
quarries. 

One  day,  four  weeks  thereafter,  O’Reilly  was  sum- 
moned by  the  officer  in  whose  immediate  charge  he  was, 
who  said  to  him,  “ You  will  go  down  to  the  vessel  (men- 
tioning her  name),  and  deliver  the  articles  named  in  this 
bill  of  lading  ; read  it ! ” 

O’Reilly  read  it.  It  called  for  the  delivery,  in  good 
order  and  condition,  of  three  articles  ; to  wit : One  convict, 
No.  9843,  one  bag,  and  one  hammock  or  bed.  O’Reilly 
was  No.  9843  ; his  destination  was  the  convict  settlement 
of  Bunbury,  thirty  miles  along  the  coast,  west  of  Fre- 
mantle. 

Arrived  there  he  was  assigned  to  one  of  the  road  parties 
and  began  the  dreary  life  of  a convict,  which,  however,  was 
relieved  from  the  utter  woe  of  Millbank’s  solitary  days,  or 
the  revolting  cruelties  of  Chatham  and  Dartmoor.  Still  it 
was  bad  enough.  Among  the  criminals  with  whom  he  was 
forced  to  associate  were  some  of  the  most  degraded  of 
human  kind, — murderers,  burglars,  sinners  of  every  grade 
and  color  of  vice.  They  were  the  poison  flower  of  civiliza- 
tion’s corruption,  more  depraved  than  the  savage,  as  they 
were  able  to  misuse  the  advantages  of  superior  knowledge. 
They  were  the  overflow  of  society’s  cesspool,  the  irreclaim- 
able victims  of  sin — too  often  the  wretched  fruits  of  he- 
redity or  environment.  Happily  for  the  young,  generous, 
clean- minded  rebel,  who  had  been  doomed  to  herd  with 
this  prison  scum,  God  had  given  him  the  instincts  of  pure 
humanity  ; and  ill-fortune,  instead  of  blighting,  had  nour- 
ished their  growth.  He  looked  upon  his  fellow-sufferers 
with  eyes  of  mercy,  seeing  how  many  of  them  were  the 
victims,  directly  or  indirectly,  of  cruel,  selfish,  social  condi- 
tions. In  the  Australian  Bush  he  saw  humanity  in  two 
naked  aspects  : the  savage,  utterly  ignorant  of  civilized  vir- 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


71 


tues  as  of  civilized  vices  ; and  the  white  convict,  stripped  of 
all  social  hypocrisies,  revealing  the  worst  traits  of  depraved 
humanity.  Both  were  “ naked  and  not  ashamed.”  For 
the  savages,  so-called,  he  entertained  a sincere  and  abiding 
admiration.  “ Why,”  he  said,  years  afterwards,  “I  found 
that  those  creatures  were  men  and  women,  just  like  the 
rest  of  us  ; the  difference  between  those  poor  black  boys 
and  the  men  of  the  Somerset  Club  was  only  external.  I 
have  good  friends  among  those  Australian  savages,  to-day, 
that  I would  be  as  glad  to  meet  as  any  man  I know.” 

We  know  from  his  own  “Moondyne,”  and  other  works, 
how  tenderly  and  how  charitably  he  regarded  even  the 
lowest  of  his  convict  associates.  It  would  be  worth  much 
to  a student  of  human  nature  could  we  know  how  they 
regarded  him.  How  strange  a sojourner  in  their  logging- 
camps  and  prison  cells  must  have  been  this  young,  hand- 
some, daring,  generous,  kindly  poet,  who  wore  their  con- 
vict’s garb,  toiled  beside  them  with  axe  and  shovel,  and 
dreamed  dreams,  while  they  cursed  their  hard  fate  or 
obscenely  mocked  at  their  enemy,  Mankind  ! 

He  soon  won  the  respect  of  the  officer  under  whose 
immediate  charge  he  was,  a man  named  Woodman,  who, 
appreciating  O’Reilly’s  ability,  gladly  availed  himself  of 
his  help  in  making  out  his  monthly  reports  and  other 
clerical  work.  He  also  appointed  him  a “ constable,”  as 
those  prisoners  were  called,  who,  for  good  conduct,  were 
detailed  as  aids  to  the  officer  in  charge  of  each  working 
party.  The  constable  wears  a red  stripe  on  his  sleeve,  as  a 
badge  of  his  office  ; he  is  employed  to  carry  dispatches 
from  station  to  station,  and  is  usually  sent  to  conduct  to 
prison  any  convict  on  the  road-gang  who  may  prove  refrac- 
tory or  mutinous.  The  constables  must  not  be  confounded 
with  the  ticket-of-leave  men.  They  were  under  no  legal  or 
moral  parole ; on  the  contrary,  they  were  held  to  the 
strictest  account,  and  punished  more  severely  than  ordi- 
nary criminals  if  they  failed  in  their  duties.  O’Reilly  had 
good  reason  to  know  this,  as  a slight  involuntary  breach  of 
the  rules  once  brought  down  upon  him  a most  heartless 


72 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 

and  inhuman  punishment.  The  story  has  a double  interest, 
both  as  showing  the  opportunities  for  malicious  cruelty 
possessed  by  even  a subordinate  prison  officer,  and  the 
infinite  charity  with  which  O’  Reilly  was  able  to  forgive  an 
atrocious  wrong. 

At  one  of  the  stations  to  which  he  was  occasionally  sent 
with  messages  there  was  an  overseer,  warden,  or  watch- dog 
of  some  sort,  who  chose  to  be  an  exception  to  all  human 
kind,  by  conceiving,  at  sight,  a bitter  dislike  to  young 
O’Reilly.  On  their  very  first  meeting  he  looked  hard  at  the 
new-comer,  and  said  : 

“ Young  man,  you  know  what  you  are  here  for  add- 
ing, with  an  oath,  “ I will  help  you  to  know  it.”  From 
that  time  on  he  watched  his  victim  sharply,  hoping  to  catch 
him  in  some  infraction  of  the  many  regulations  governing 
the  convict  settlement. 

At  last  his  time  came.  O’Reilly,  one  day,  was  a few 
minutes  late  in  making  his  trip.  He  found  the  overseer 
waiting  for  him,  watch  in  hand.  “ You  are  late, — so  many 
minutes,”  he  said  ; “you  are  reported.”  Among  the  pen- 
alties of  being  “ reported,”  one  was  that  the  offender  should 
not  be  allowed  to  send  or  receive  a letter  for  six  months. 
A few  days  after  this  incident,  the  overseer  called  O’Reilly 
into  his  office.  He  held  in  his  hand  a letter,  heavily  bor- 
dered in  black,  which  he  had  just  perused.  O’Reilly  knew 
that  his  mother,  at  home  in  Ireland,  had  been  dangerously 
ill  for  some  time.  The  letter  probably  bore  the  news  of  her 
death,  but  it  might  contain  tidings  of  a less  bitter  loss. 
Nobody  in  the  place,  except  the  overseer,  knew  its  con- 
tents. He  said:  “O’Reilly,  here  is  a letter  for  you.” 

The  prisoner  said,  “Thank  you,”  and  held  out  his  hand 
for  it.  The  overseer  looked  at  him  for  a moment,  then, 
tossing  the  letter  into  a drawer,  said,  “ You  will  get  it  in 
six  months ! ” 

When  at  the  end  of  six  months  he  received  the  letter,  he 
found  that  it  confirmed  his  worst  fears.  The  mother  whom 
he  had  loved  and  idolized  was  dead. 

Listening  to  this  story,  years  afterwards,  from  the  lips 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


73 


of  its  victim,  I asked  him  why  he  had  never  published  the 
name  of  the  cold-blooded  wretch,  for  the  execration  of  hu- 
manity. He  smiled  and  said  that  he  did  not  bear  the  fellow 
any  malice  ; that  a man  who  would  do  a deed  of  that  kind 
must  be  insane  and  irresponsible, — a being  toward  whom 
one  could  not  cherish  animosity.  To  a request  that  the 
name  might  be  given  to  somebody  of  less  magnanimous 
soul,  he  replied,  “ I do  not  know  his  name  now;  I have 
forgotten  it.”  For  that  reason  the  name  does  not  appear 
in  these  pages. 

But  life  in  the  Bush  was  not  all  made  up  of  tragedy,  or 
even  of  misery.  To  the  poet  there  was  consolation,  and  al- 
most happiness,  in  the  glorious  open  air,  amid  the  grand 
primeval  trees,  and  the  strange  birds  and  beasts  of  the  an- 
tipodes. The  land  about  him  lay  at  the  world’s  threshold. 
Strange  monsters  of  pre-historic  form  still  peopled  the  for- 
est, monsters  of  the  vegetable  as  well  as  of  the  animal  king- 
dom. 

One  incident  will  illustrate  his  love  of  nature,  which, 
curiously  enough,  found  more  frequent  expression  in  his 
prose  than  in  his  verse,  and  was  still  more  a part  of  his  life 
than  of  his  writings.  For,  wdiile  he  passionately  loved  and 
keenly  enjoyed  all  the  delights  of  communion  with  nature, 
his  joy  and  love  were  personal  pleasures.  They  formed  no 
part  of  the  sermon  which  it  was  his  mission  to  preach.  The 
text  of  that  sermon  was  Humanity.  To  that  he  subordi- 
nated every  impulse  of  mere  sentiment.  This  long  preface 
to  a short  story  is  excusable,  because  the  criticism  has  been 
made,  and  with  justice,  that  O’Reilly’s  poetry  is  strangely 
wanting  in  the  purely  descriptive  element.  The  only  long 
poem  to  which  that  criticism  least  applies  is  his  “ King  of 
the  Vasse,”  in  which  are  many  wonderfully  strong  and 
beautiful  pictures  of  nature. 

It  happened  that  the  road-gang  with  which  he  was 
working,  in  following  the  course  laid  out  by  the  surveyors, 
came  upon  a magnificent  tree,  a giant  among  its  fellows, 
the  growth  of  centuries,  towering  aloft  to  the  sky  and 
spreading  enormous  arms  on  every  side.  The  wealth  of  an 


74 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


empire  could  not  buy  this  peerless  work  of  nature.  The 
word  of  an  unlettered  ruler  of  a convict  gang  was  potent 
enough  for  its  destruction  ; for  it  lay  right  in  the  middle  of 
the  surveyed  road.  The  order  was  given  to  cut  it  down. 
O’  Reilly  argued  and  pleaded  for  its  preservation,  but  in 
vain.  All  that  he  could  obtain  was  a reluctantly  granted 
reprieve,  and  appeal  to  a higher  power.  He  went — this 
absurd  poet  in  a striped  suit — to  the  commander  of  the  dis- 
trict, and  pleaded  for  the  tree.  The  official  was  so  amused 
at  his  astounding  audacity  that  he  told  his  wife,  who,  being 
a woman,  had  a soul  above  surveys  and  rights  of  way.  She 
insisted  on  visiting  the  tree,  and  the  result  of  her  visit  was 
a phenomenon.  The  imperial  road  was  turned  from  its 
course,  and  a grand  work  of  nature  stands  in  the  West 
Australian  forests  as  a monument  to  the  convict  poet. 

The  scum  of  civilization  amid  which  O’Reilly  was 
anchored  lay  just  above  the  depths  of  primitive  savagery  ; 
there  was  no  intermediate  layer.  But  there  was  one  im- 
measurable gulf  between  the  naked  savage  and  the  branded 
outcast  of  civilization.  The  savage  was  free.  The  white 
man  envied  him,  as  one  who  drowns  may  envy  him  who 
swims  in  the  dangerous  waves.  The  savage  was  free, 
because  he  could  live  in  the  Bush. 

There  was  no  need  of  fetters  or  warders  to  prevent  the 
criminal’s  escape.  Nature  had  provided  a wall  absolutely 
impassable  in  the  boundless  Bush,  in  whose  thorny  depths 
the  fugitive  was  lost  at  the  first  plunge.  Could  he  bury 
himself  in  its  recesses,  and  hide  his  trail  from  the  keen 
scent  of  the  native  trackers,  employed  as  sleuth-hounds  by 
the  Government,  he  would  still  be  almost  as  helpless  as  a 
traveler  lost  in  the  desert,  or  a mariner  on  a plank  in  mid- 
ocean. He  had  no  weapons  with  which  to  kill  game ; he 
was  ignorant  of  the  country  and  liable  to  perish  of  thirst 
or  hunger  ; above  all  he  had  no  definite  goal  in  sight.  The 
pathless  Bush  lay  before  him,  thousands  of  miles  in  one 
direction, — the  wide,  deserted  Indian  Ocean  in  the  other. 
He  might  eke  out  a precarious  existence  for  a while  in  the 
Bush,  living  a life  lower  than  that  of  the  lowest  savage, 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES.  75 

whose  wood- craft  could  procure  him  a living  ; but  he  had 
no  hope  of  freedom,  near  or  remote.  Of  the  two  alterna- 
tives left  him  (outside  that  of  penal  servitude),  suicide  was 
rather  better  than  flight  to  the  Bush. 

So  said  the  good  priest,  Father  McCabe,  when  O’  Reilly, 
consumed  with  the  mad  passion  for  liberty,  told  him  his 
crude  plans  of  escape.  Perhaps  flight  was  worse  than  sui- 
cide, in  an  earthly  sense,  because  its  inevitable  failure 
carried  with  it  a penalty,  that  of  enrollment  in  the  chain- 
gangs.  The  horrors  of  this  punishment  are  not  to  be 
understood  by  free  men.  Something  of  them  may  be 
gleaned  from  O’Reilly’s  poem,  “The  Mutiny  of  the 
Chains,”  in  which  he  says  : 

Woe  to  the  weak,  to  the  mutineers  ! 

The  bolt  of  their  death  is  driven  ; 

A mercy  waits  on  all  other  tears, 

But  the  Chains  are  never  forgiven. 

He  had  been  a little  over  a year  in  the  convict  settle- 
ment before  the  long-sought  opportunity  came  of  break- 
ing his  bonds  forever.  The  story  of  his  escape  would 
be  deeply  interesting  had  he  been  nothing  more  than  a 
mere  adventurer  like  Baron  Trenck,  or  a poor  court  intriguer 
like  Latude  ; for  the  world — we  are  all  only  prisoners  under 
a life  sentence — is  ever  stirred  by  the  story  of  a bondman 
breaking  his  fetters  ; but  a warmer  sympathy  is  evoked  by 
the  tale  of  this  young  hero  of  a romantic  revolutionary 
movement, — this  poet  whose  whole  life  was  a poem. 

The  true  account  was  not  given  to  the  world  for  many 
years,  as  its  premature  publication  would  have  entailed 
serious  consequences  on  some  of  the  agents  in  Australia 
through  whose  devotion  and  courage  the  young  convict 
had  effected  his  escape.  The  first  authentic  story,  as  pub- 
lished with  his  sanction  by  his  brother  author  and  warm 
friend,  Mr.  Alexander  Young,  of  Boston,  in  the  Philadel- 
phia Times  of  June  25,  1881,  is  as  follows  : 

O’Reilly  had  made  preparations  for  his  escape  several  months  before 
attempting  it.  He  had  told  no  one  of  his  intention,  because  he  had 


76 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


witnessed  so  many  failures  that  he  decided  the  safest  way  was  to  trust 
to  himself  alone.  A chance  occurrence  led  him  to  change  his  mind. 
One  day  while  in  camp  with  a convict  road  party,  he  had  a call  from 
the  Rev.  Patrick  McCabe,  a Catholic  priest,  whose  “parish”  extended 
over  hundreds  of  miles  of  wild  Bush  country,  and  whose  only  parish- 
ioners were  convicts  and  ticket-of  -leave  men.  This  scholarly,  accom- 
plished gentleman  had  at  that  time  passed  fifteen  years  in  ministering 
to  the  spiritual  needs  of  convicts,  upon  whom  he  exerted  a very  benefi- 
cial influence.  His  days  were  almost  wholly  spent  in  the  saddle, 
riding  alone  from  camp  to  camp,  and  the  nights  found  him  wrapped  in 
his  blanket  under  the  trees.  He  was  kind  to  all  men,  whatever  their 
creed,  and  a sincere  Christian  worker.  O’Reilly,  who  had  found  him 
a warm  friend  during  his  stay  in  the  penal  colony,  thus  bears  witness 
to  his  usefulness  : “He  was  the  bes,t  influence  ; indeed,  in  my  time,  he 
was  the  only  good  influence,  on  the  convicts  in  the  whole  district  of 
Bunbury.”  O’Reilly  told  him  his  plans  of  escape  as  they  walked 
together  in  the  Bush.  “It  is  an  excellent  way  to  commit  suicide,” 
said  the  thoughtful  priest,  who  refused  to  talk  about  or  countenance  it. 
He  mounted  his  horse  to  say  good-by,  and,  leaning  from  the  saddle 
toward  O’Reilly,  he  said  : 1 ‘ Don’t  think  of  that  again.  Let  me  think 
out  a plan  for  you.  You’ll  hear  from  me  before  long.”  Weeks  and 
months  passed,  and  O’Reilly  never  heard  from  him.  It  was  a weary 
waiting,  but  the  convict,  though  tortured  by  the  uncertainty  which 
kept  him  from  working  his  own  plan,  and  even  hindered  him  from 
sleep,  still  had  confidence  in  his  absent  and  silent  friend  and  adviser. 

O’Reilly  was  exempt  from  the  hardships  of  labor  with  the  criminal 
gang  on  the  roads,  but  had  charge  of  their  stores  and  carried  the  war- 
den’s weekly  report  to  the  Bunbury  depot.  While  trudging  along 
with  this  report  one  day  he  reached  a plain  called  the  “Race  Course.” 
As  he  was  crossing  it  he  heard  a “ coo-ee,”  or  bush-cry.  Looking  wist- 
fully in  the  direction  of  the  sound,  he  saw  a stalwart  man  coming 
toward  him  with  an  axe  on  his  shoulder.  There  was  a pleasant  smile 
on  his  handsome  face  as  he  approached  O'Reilly  and  said  : “ My  name 
is  Maguire  ; I’m  a friend  of  Father  Mac’s,  and  lie’s  been  speaking  about 
you.”  Having  learned  the  importance  of  distrusting  strangers  in  con- 
vict land,  O’Reilly  said  but  a few  words  and  those  such  as  could  not 
reveal  his  relations  with  the  priest.  Observing  his  hesitation,  the 
stranger  took  a card  from  his  wallet  on  which  was  a message  addressed 
to  O’Reilly  in  the  handwriting  of  Father  McCabe.  This  set  at  rest  all 
doubts  and  fears  of  the  man’s  intentions.  O’Reilly  eagerly  listened  to 
what  he  had  to  say,  for  he  had  come  to  carry  out  the  good  priest’s  plan  • 
of  escape.  He  said  he  was  clearing  the  race  course,  and  would  be  at 
work  there  for  a month.  In  February— it  was  then  December — Ameri- 
can whalers  would  touch  at  Bunbury  for  water,  and  he  should  arrange 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


77 


with  one  of  them  to  secrete  O’Reilly  on  board  and  take  him  out  of 
danger.  This  was  cheering  news,  but,  during  the  week  which  passed 
before  he  again  saw  Maguire,  O’Reilly  could  hardly  sleep  for  fear  that 
the  man  would  shrink,  when  the  time  came,  from  the  danger  to  his  own 
life  of  helping  him  to  escape.  But  Maguire’s  hearty  and  confident 
manner  when  he  next  saw  him  helped  to  dispel  these  fears.  “You’ll 
be  a free  man  in  February,”  he  said,  “ as  sure  as  my  name  is 
Maguire,” 

December  and  January  passed  away,  and  a wood-cutter  chancing  to 
go  to  the  convict-road  camp  mentioned  the  fact  that  three  American 
whaling  barks  had  put  into  Bunbury.  The  news  made  O’Reilly  terribly 
anxious  lest  the  plan  for  his  escape  should  fall  through.  He  deter- 
mined to  venture  out  by  himself  if  he  heard  nothing  from  his  friends. 
On  returning  from  the  depot,  to  which  he  had  carried  his  weekly 
report,  as  usual,  O’Reilly  found  Maguire  waiting  for  him  at  the  race 
course.  “Are  you  ready  ? ” were  the  faithful  fellow’s  first  words.  He 
then  said  that  one  of  the  whalers,  the  bark  Vigilant , of  New  Bedford, 
was  to  sail  in  four  days  and  that  Captain  Baker  had  agreed  to  take 
O’Reilly  on  board  if  he  fell  in  with  him  outside  Australian  waters,  and 
had  even  promised  to  cruise  for  two  or  three  days  and  keep  a lookout 
for  him.  Maguire  had  arranged  all  the  details  of  the  escape.  O’Reilly 
was  to  leave  his  hut  at  eight  o’clock  in  the  evening  of  February  18,  and 
take  a cut  through  the  Bash  on  a line  which  was  likely  to  mislead  the 
native  trackers.  He  had  obtained  a pair  of  freeman’s  shoes,  as  the 
mark  left  by  the  convict’s  boot  could  be  easily  traced.  After  leaving 
the  camp  he  was  to  push  on  through  the  Bush  in  a straight  course 
toward  a convict*  station  on  the  Yasse  road.  There  he  was  to  lie  till  he 
heard  some  one  on  the  road  whistle  the  first  bars  of  ‘ ‘ Patrick’s  Day.” 
The  plan  was  gone  over  carefully  between  Maguire  and  O’Reilly,  every 
point  being  repeated  till  there  could  be  no  doubt  of  their  mutual  agree- 
ment. The  two  men  then  separated. 

On  the  evening  of  February  18  O’Reilly  wrote  a letter  to  his  father 
about  his  intended  escape  that  night,  and  his  purpose,  if  successful,  to  go 
to  the  United  States.  Two  months  afterwards  this  letter  found  its  way 
into  the  Dublin  newspapers.  At  seven  o’clock  that  evening  the  warden 
of  the  convict  party  went  his  rounds  and  looked  in  upon  all  the  criminals. 
He  saw  O’Reilly  sitting  in  his  hut  as  he  passed  on  his  return.  Soon  after 
a convict  came  to  the  hut  to  borrow  some  tobacco  and  remained  so  long 
that  the  host  became  very  nervous.  Fortunately  the  convict  went 
away  before  eight.  As  soon  as  he  had  gone  O’Reilly  changed  his  boots, 
put  out  the  light,  and  started  on  his  desperate  venture  through  the 
Bush. 

Though  the  woods  were  dark  the  stars  shone  brightly  overhead. 
Before  he  had  gone  two  hundred  yards  he  was  startled  by  discovering 


78 


JOHN  BOYLE  o’ REILLY. 


that  a man  was  following  him.  It  was  a moment  of  terrible  strain  for 
O’Reilly,  but  with  admirable  nerve  he  coolly  waited  for  the  fellow  to 
come  up.  He  proved  to  be  a mahogany  sawyer  named  Kelly,  whose 
saw-pit  was  close  to  the  fugitive’s  hut.  He  was  a criminal  who  had  been 
transported  for  life.  “ Are  you  off  ? ” he  whispered  hoarsely.  “ I knew 
you  meant  it.  I saw  you  talking  to  Maguire  a month  ago,  and  I knew 
it  all.”  These  words  filled  O’Reilly  with  astonishment  and  alarm,  so 
that  he  could  not  speak.  He  felt  that  he  was  in  the  man’s  power.  He 
might  have  already  put  the  police  on  his  track,  or  he  could  do  so  the 
next  day.  But  the  criminal  showed  a manly  sympathy  with  the  youth 
who  had  risked  so  much  for  freedom.  Holding  out  his  hand  to  O’Reilly 
he  gave  him  a strong  grip,  saying,  with  a quivering,  husky  voice : 
“God  speed  you.  I’ll  put  them  on  the  wrong  scent  to-morrow.”  The 
fugitive  could  not  speak  the  gratitude  he  felt,  so,  silently  pressing  the 
manly  hand,  he  pushed  on  again  through  the  woods. 

It  was  eleven  o’clock  when  he  reached  the  old  convict  station  and 
lay  down  beneath  a great  gum  tree  at  the  roadside.  From  his  dusky 
hiding-place  he  kept  an  anxious  lookout  for  friends  or  foes.  In  about 
half  an  hour  two  men  rode  by.  They  seemed  to  be  farmers,  but  they  may 
have  been  a patrol  of  mounted  police.  Soon  after,  the  sound  of  horses 
coming  at  a sharp  trot  was  heard  by  the  fugitive.  They  stopped  near 
his  resting  place,  and  he  heard  ‘ ‘ Patrick’s  Day  ” whistled  in  low  but 
clear  tones.  In  an  instant  O’Reilly  ran  up  to  the  horsemen,  who  proved 

to  be  Maguire  and  another  friend,  M . They  had  another  horse  with 

them,  which  O’Reilly  mounted,  and  then,  without  saying  a word,  the 
three  started  off  at  a gallop  for  the  woods.  They  rode  on  in  silence  for 
several  hours.  At  last,  Maguire,  who  led  the  way,  reined  in  his  horse, 
dismounted,  and  whistled.  He  was  answered  by  another  whistle.  In 
a few  minutes  three  men  came  up,  two  of  whom  turned  out  to  be  cousins 
of  Maguire.  The  third  man  took  the  horses  and  galloped  off,  but  not 
till  he  had  given  O’Reilly  a warm  shake  of  the  hand,  expressive  of  his 
good  wishes.  The  three  men  then  formed  in  Indian  file  and,  to  prevent 
the  discQvery*of  their  number,  the  two  behind  covered  the  footprints  of 
the  leader.  After  walking  for  about  an  hour  they  reached  a dry  swamp 
near  the  sea. 

O’Reilly  remained  at  this  place  with  M , while  the  other  men  -went 

on.  He  was  told  that  Bunbury  was  near  by  and  that  they  had  gone 
for  the  boat.  After  waiting  half  an  hour  in  anxiety  lest  the  plan  of 
escape  had  been  thwarted  at  the  last  moment,  a light  was  seen  about 
half  a mile  away.  This  disappeared,  only  to  flash  out  three  more  times. 
It  was  the  signal  for  O’Reilly  and  his  companion  to  go  forward.  They 
went  along  the  road  till  they  came  to  a bridge  where  Maguire  was  wait- 
ing for  them.  The  boat  was  all  ready,  but  the  tide  being  out  they  had 
to  wade  knee-deep  through  the  mud  to  reach  the  water.  Maguire,  who 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


79 


led  the  way,  was  soon  aboard  with  O’Reilly.  M meanwhile  remained 

on  the  shore,  and,  when  appealed  to  by  Maguire  in  a whisper  to  ‘ ‘ come 
on,”  answered  in  a trembling  voice  : “ No,  I promised  my  wife  not  to 
go  in  the  boat.”  This  led  one  of  Maguire’s  cousins,  who  had  come 
aboard  before  the  others,  to  answer  back  in  a sneering  tone  : “All 

right,  go  home  to  your  wife.”  Yet  M did  not  deserve  this  taunt  of 

cowardice.  He  was  brave  enough  when  duty  called  him,  as  he  after- 
wards  showed. 

The  four  men  in  the  boat  were  careful  to  pull  quietly  till  there  was 
no  danger  of  their  being  overheard.  Then  they  bent  vigorously  to  the 
oars,  as  if  rowing  for  life.  Little  was  said,  but  thoughts  of  what  they 
had  at  stake  were  all  the  deeper  for  not  finding  vent  in  words.  By  sun- 
rise the  boat  had  got  almost  out  of  sight  of  land,  only  the  tops  of  the 
high  sand-hills  being  visible.  The  course  was  a straight  line  of  forty 
miles  across  Geographe  Bay.  It  had  been  arranged  to  lie  in  wait  for 
the  Vigilant  on  the  further  shore,  and  row  toward  her  as  she  passed  the 
northern  head  of  the  bay.  After  pulling  strongly  till  near  noon  the 
mefL  began  to  feel  the  need  of  food  and  drink,  which  from  some  reason 
or  other  had  not  been  provided  for  their  cruise.  O’Reilly,  who  had 
eaten  nothing  for  twenty-four  hours,  suffered  dreadfully  from  thirst. 
Accordingly  the  boat  was  run  ashore  through  the  surf  and  pulled  high 
and  dry  on  the  beach.  The  drenching  which  the  men  got  in  doing  this 
gave  them  temporary  relief  from  thirst.  But  this  soon  became  so  in- 
tense that  they  wandered  for  hours  through  the  dried  swamps  in  search 
of  water.  Hundreds  of  paper-bark  trees  were  examined  for  the  wished 
for  drink,  but  not  a drop  could  be  found.  O’Reilly  became  alarmed  at 
the  burning  pain  in  his  chest,  which  seemed  as  if  its  whole  inner  sur- 
face were  covered  with  a blister.  As  night  was  coming  on  they  came 
to  a cattle-track,  which  led  to  a shallow  and  muddy  pool.  But  the 
water  was  too  foul  to  drink,  so  they  had  to  content  themselves  with 
cooling  their  faces  in  it. 

As  the  whaler  would  not  put  to  sea  till  morning  or,  perhaps,  the  fol- 
lowing evening,  O’Reilly  was  in  sore  need  of  sustenance  to  keep  up  his 
strength.  Fortunately  there  was  a man  living  in  a log  house  a few 
miles  away  whom  the  Maguires  knew  and  thought  well  of.  He  was  an 
Englishman  named  Johnson,  and  lived  on  this  lonely  expanse  of  coast 
with  no  neighbor  nearer  than  forty  miles,  as  keeper  of  a large  herd  of 
buffalo  cows.  The  three  men  started  for  his  house,  leaving  O’Reilly  in 
the  Bush  for  safety,  but  promising  that  one  should  return  with  food  and 
drink  as  soon  as  he  could  get  away  unobserved.  The  poor  sufferer 
whom  they  left  behind  watched  them  winding  in  and  out  among  the 
sand-hills  till  they  were  lost  to  view.  Then  he  lay  down  on  the  sand 
in  a shady  spot  and  tried  to  sleep.  But  the  terrible  blistering  pain  in 
his  chest  made  it  impossible  for  him  to  remain  in  a reclining  position, 


80 


JOHN  BOYLE  O REILLY. 


and  he  was  obliged  to  get  up  and  walk  about.  Hours  passed  and  his 
friends  did  not  return.  O’Reilly’s  sufferings  at  this  time  were  the 
worst  he  ever  experienced.  In  his  desperate  straits  his  knowledge  and 
judgment  of  woodcraft  served  him  in  good  stead.  Recollecting  that  the 
natives  lived  on  freshly  killed  meat  when  they  could  get  no  water,  he 
sought  for  a tree  with  ’possum  marks.  This  he  soon  found  and  on 
climbing  it  secured  a large  possum  by  pulling  it  out  of  its  hole  by  the 
tail  and  striking  its  head  against  the  tree.  He  then  learned  what  his 
subsequent  experience  confirmed,  that  this  meat  was  the  very  best  sub- 
stitute for  water.  Maguire  returned  at  nightfall,  bringing  food  and  a 
bottle  of  water.  He  remained  but  a short  time,  thinking  it  best  to  go 
back  to  the  Englishman’s  house  to  avoid  exciting  suspicion.  Soon  after 
his  departure,  O’Reilly  made  a bed  with  boughs  and  leaves  on  the 
sand,  using  the  young  branches  of  the  peppermint  tree  in  order  to  keep 
away  ants,  snakes,  and  centipedes.  He  soon  fell  into  a sound  sleep  and 
did  not  awake  till  his  friends  called  him  the  next  morning.  Yet  all 
this  time  he  was  in  danger  of  being  tracked  by  the  police. 

The  party  soon  started  for  the  beach,  which  was  reached  at  about 
nine  o’clock.  One  of  the  men  was  sent  with  a strong  glass,  which 
Maguire  had  brought,  to  the  top  of  a high  hill  to  keep  a lookout  for  the 
Vigilant.  At  about  one  o’clock  he  came  running  down  with  the  wel- 
come news  that  the  vessel  was  steering  north,  with  all  sails  spread.  As 
no  time  was  to  be  lost  the  boat  was  quickly  run  out  through  the  surf. 
The  men  pulled  cheerily  toward  the  headland,  for  they  were  confident 
of  reaching  it  before  the  bark  passed.  They  had  rowed  about  a couple 
of  hours  when  she  was  seen  steering  straight  toward  the  boat.  The 
men  therefore  stopped  pulling  and  waited  for  her  to  come  up.  To  their 
intense  disappointment  she  changed  her  course  slightly  when  within 
two  miles  of  the  boat,  as  if  to  avoid  them.  The  men  looked  on  amazed. 
Maguire  repeatedly  said  that  Captain  Baker  had  pledged  his  word  to 
take  them  on  board,  and  he  could  not  believe  him  mean  enough  to 
break  it.  To  settle  the  question  one  of  the  men  stood  up  in  the  boat 
and  hailed  the  vessel  loudly  enough  to  be  heard  on  board.  There  was 
no  answer.  Again  the  man  hailed  her,  his  companions  joining  in  the 
shout.  No  sound  came  back,  and  the  Vigilant  seemed  to  be  moving  a 
little  further  off.  At  last  she  brought  up  abreast  of  the  boat,  at  about 
three  miles  distant.  As  a last  resort,  Maguire  fixed  a white  shirt  on 
the  top  of  an  oar  and  the  men  all  shouted  again.  But  the  Vigilant 
passed  on,  leaving  the  boat  to  its  fate. 

As  the  bark  gradually  receded  in  the  distance,  the  bitterness  of 
O’Reilly’s  disappointment  was  increased  by  the  sense  of  danger.  What 
could  now  be  done  to  save  him  was  the  thought  of  every  one  in  the 
boat,  as  she  was  put  about  and  pulled  slowly  for  the  shore.  Maguire 
proposed  that  the  boat  should  be  hauled  on  to  the  beach  and  then 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


81 


O’Reilly  should  be  left  in  the  Bush,  as  before,  while  the  others  went  on 
to  Johnson’s.  It  was  necessary  to  trust  the  Englishman  with  the 
secret  and  let  him  know  the  hiding-place  of  the  fugitive,  for  his  friends 
were  obliged  to  go  home  and  arrange  for  his  escape  by  one  of  the  other 
whale-ships.  This  plan  was  agreed  to  by  the  whole  party  as  the  best 
way  out  of  the  difficulty.  It  was  evening  when  they  reached  the  shore. 
As  his  three  friends  left  O’Reilly  in  the  secluded  sand  valley  they  shook 
him  by  the  hand  and  told  him  to  keep  up  a good  heart.  They  promised 
that  one  of  them  would  come  from  Bunbury  in  the  course  of  a week  to 
tell  him  when  the  whalers  would  sail.  They  also  said  that  they  should 
communicate  with  old  Johnson  and  ask  him  to  bring  food  and  water 
to  the  sand  valley,  which  the  old  man  did. 

In  his  nervous  desire  to  get  away  as  soon  as  possible  from  the  penal 
colony,  O’Reilly  brooded  over  Captain  Baker’s  promise  to  cruise  for  his 
boat  if  it  was  not  sighted  when  the  Vigilant  came  out.  He  thought 
that  the  captain  might  not  have  seen  the  boat  and  might  be  still  cruis- 
ing along  the  coast  on  the  lookout  for  it.  This  idea  made  him  eager  to 
row  out  again  and  take  the  chance  of  falling  in  with  the  vessel.  But 
the  boat  in  which  he  had  ventured  before  was  too  heavy  for  one  person 
to  set  afloat  or  row.  He  asked  J ohnson’s  boy,  who  came  the  third 
night,  in  place  of  the  old  man,  if  his  father  had  a boat.  The  lad  said 
there  was  an  old  dory  at  the  horse  range  further  up  the  coast,  buried 
in  the  sand.  When  the  boy  had  gone  O’Reilly  walked  along  the  beach 
for  six  or  seven  miles,  and  at  last  found  the  boat.  The  heat  and  dry 
weather  had  warped  her  badly,  but  O’Reilly  pulled  her  carefully  into 
the  water  and  fastened  her  by  a rope  of  paper  bark  to  a stake  driven 
into  the  sand,  and  went  back  to  his  hiding-place  for  the  night. 

Next  morning  he  ventured  out  to  sea  in  this  frail  craft,  which  he 
had  made  water  tight  by  the  use  of  paper  bark.  In  order  to  keep  his 
stock  of  meat  from  spoiling  in  the  hot  sun  he  let  it  float  in  the  water, 
fastened  by  a rope  of  paper  bark  to  the  stern  of  the  boat.  The  light 
craft  went  rapidly  forward  under  his  vigorous  rowing,  and  before  night 
had  passed  the  headland  and  was  on  the  Indian  Ocean. 

That  night  on  an  unknown  sea  in  a mere  shell  had  a strange,  weird 
interest,  heightened  by  the  anxious  expectations  of  the  seeker  for 
liberty.  O’Reilly  ceased  rowing  the  next  morning,  trusting  to  the 
northward  current  to  bring  him  within  view  of  the  whale-ship.  He 
suffered  a good  deal  from  the  blazing  rays  of  the  sun  and  their  scorch- 
ing reflection  from  the  water.  To  add  to  his  troubles,  the  meat  towing 
in  the  water  was  becoming  putrid,  and  he  found  that  some  of  the  ’pos- 
sums and  kangaroo  rats  had  been  taken  by  sharks  in  the  night. 
Toward  noon  he  saw  a vessel  under  sail  which  he  knew  must  be  the 
Vigilant  and  his  hopes  ran  high,  as  she  drew  so  near  to  the  boat  that 
he  could  hear  voices  on  her  deck.  He  saw  a man  aloft  on  the  lookout  ; 


82 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


but  there  was  no  answer  to  the  cry  from  the  boat,  and  the  vessel  again 
sailed  off,  leaving  O’Reilly  to  sadly  watch  her  fade  away  into  the  night. 
He  afterward  heard  from  Captain  Baker  that,  strangely  enough,  the 
boat  was  not  seen  from  the  ship. 

Being  refreshed  by  the  dew  and  the  cool  night  air,  O’Reilly  bent  to 
the  work  of  rowing  back  to  shore.  There  was  nothing  to  do  but  to  get 
to  his  hiding-place  and  await  Maguire’s  return.  He  tugged  at  the  oars 
pretty  steadily  through  the  night,  and  when  morning  came  he  was 
within  sight  of  the  sand-hills  on  the  headland  of  Geographe  Bay.  He 
reached  land  by  noon  and  then  walked  on  wearily  to  Johnson’s,  where 
he  arrived  the  same  night.  The  fatigue  and  anxiety  which  he  had 
gone  through  had  thoroughly  exhausted  him.  He  cared  for  nothing 
but  sleep,  and  this  he  could  have  without  stint  in  the  secluded  sand 
valley.  There  he  remained  for  five  days,  when  he  was  cheered  by  the 

arrival  of  Maguire  and  M , who  said  that  they  had  come  to  see  him 

through.  This  time  Maguire  brought  a brief  letter  from  Father 
McCabe,  asking  O’Reilly  to  remember  him.  He  had  arranged  with 
Captain  Gifford,  of  the  bark  Gazelle , of  New  Bedford,  one  of  the 
whalers  that  were  to  sail  next  day,  to  take  O’Reilly  on  board.  In 
order  to  insure  the  fulfillment  of  this  agreement  the  good  Father  had 
paid  the  captain  ten  pounds  to  carry  his  friend  as  far  as  Java.  Unfor- 
tunately there  was  one  serious  danger  ahead.  This  was  the  presence 
of  a criminal  convict,  one  of  the  worst  characters  in  the  penal  colony, 
Martin  Bowman,  or  Beaumont,  a ticket-of -leave  man.  This  fellow  had 
discovered  O’Reilly’s  plan  of  escape  and  had  threatened  to  reveal  the 
whole  affair  to  the  police  if  Maguire  did  not  take  him  on  board  the 
whale-ship  also.  As  it  was  unsafe  to  refuse  this  demand,  Bowman  was 
unwillingly  included  in  the  party. 

Soon  after  daybreak  the  next  morning  the  men  went  down  to  the 
beach.  Old  Johnson  and  his  boy  were  there  to  see  them  off.  They  got 
afloat  without  delay,  and  rowed  vigorously  toward  the  headland,  accord- 
ing to  Captain  Gifford’s  directions.  By  noon  they  saw  the  two  whale- 
ships  under  full  headway.  Toward  evening  they  were  hailed  by  one 
of  the  vessels,  and  a voice  shouted  O’Reilly’s  name  and  cried  out  : 
“ Come  on  board  ! ” The  men  were  delighted  at  this  call.  They 
pulled  alongside  and  O’Reilly  was  helped  out  of  the  boat  by  the  strong 
arms  of  Henry  C.  Hathaway,  the  third  mate.  He  was  warmly  wel- 
comed by  Captain  Gifford,  who  gave  him  accommodations  in  his  cabin. 
Martin  Bowman,  the  escaped  criminal,  was  quartered  in  the  forecastle 
with  the  crew.  As  the  boat  pushed  off  from  the  ship,  Maguire  stood  up 
and  cried  : ‘ ‘ God  bless  you  ; don’t  forget  us,  and  don’t  mention  our 

names  till  you  know  it’s  all  over.”  M , also,  who  had  so  well 

proved  his  courage,  shouted  a kind  farewell,  which  moved  the  grateful 
O’Reilly  to  tears. 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


83 


The  official  narrative  is  briefer.  It  is  found  in  the 
Police  Gazette  of  the  District  of  W estern  Australia  in  the 
form  of  the  following  advertisement : 

ABSCONDERS. 

20 — John  B.  O’Reilly,  registered  No.  9843,  imperial  convict  ; arrived 
in  the  colony  per  convict  ship  Hougoumont  in  1868  ; sentenced  to 
twenty  years,  9th  July,  1866.  Description — Healthy  appearance ; pres- 
ent age  25  years  ; 5 feet  7i  inches  high,  black  hair,  brown  eyes,  oval 
visage,  dark  complexion  : an  Irishman.  Absconded  from  Convict  Road 
Party,  Bunbury,  on  the  18tli  of  February,  1869. 


CHAPTER  Y. 


Narrow  Escape  from  a ‘ ‘ Bad  ” Whale — He  Feigns  Suicide  in  Order 
to  Avoid  Recapture  at  Roderique — Transferred  to  the  Sapphire 
off  Cape  of  Good  Hope — Arrival  at  Liverpool — Takes  Passage  for 
America — Lands  at  Philadelphia. 

DR.  JOHNSON,  wlio  knew  little  about  jails  and  less 
about  ships,  said  that  4 ‘being  in  a ship  is  being  in  a 
jail  with  a chance  of  being  drowned.”  To  the  man  who 
had  spent  three  years  in  penal  servitude,  the  deck  of  the 
Gazelle  was  the  illimitable  world  of  freedom.  Captain 
Gifford  was  a kindly  man.  In  Henry  Hathaway,  O’Reilly 
found  a loving  friend  and  messmate,  who  gave  the  half  of 
his  little  state-room  and  the  whole  of  his  big  heart  to  the 
young  Irishman.  The  friendship  thus  contracted  on  board 
the  Gazelle  lasted  throughout  life.  On  O’Reilly’s  part  it 
was  reinforced  by  an  undying  sense  of  gratitude  for  his 
freedom,  twice  conferred,  and  his  life  once  saved,  by  the 
generous  American  sailor. 

Hathaway  had  what,  to  a noble  nature,  is  the  best  of 
reasons  for  loving  O’Reilly,  the  right  of  a benefactor.  He 
had  helped  him  to  escape  from  bondage,  he  was  yet  to 
protect  him  from  recapture,  and  he  had  saved  him  from 
death  itself. 

Here  is  the  story  of  the  last-named  good  deed,  as 
modestly  told  by  Hathaway,  and  as  I have  heard  it  con- 
iirmed  from  the  grateful  lips  of  O’  Reilly. 

New  Bedford,  Mass.,  1877. 

My  Dear  Friend  : According  to  your  wish,  I will  now  endeavor 
to  give  you  a brief  account  of  what  happened  on  the  day  when  Mr. 
O’Reilly  was  with  me  in  pursuit  of  a “ bad  ” whale  on  the  northwest 
coast  of  Australia.  I don’t  exactly  remember  the  date,  but  think  it 
was  in  May,  1869.  We  lowered  away  our  boats  for  whales,  and 
O’Reilly  was  very  anxious  to  go  in  my  boat  • I told  him  that  he  had 

84 


BARK  “ GAZELLE,"  CAPT.  GIFFORD.  THE  NEW  BEDFORD  WHALER  THAT  PICKED  UP  JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY  OFF  THE 

COAST  OF  WEST  AUSTRALIA. 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


85 


better  stay  by  the  ship,  but  he  insisted  on  going.  I finally  consented, 
and  he  went.  Mr.  Hussey,  in  another  boat,  struck  the  whale  first.  I 
noticed  the  whale,  as  soon  as  he  struck  him,  make  for  Hussey’s  boat, 
but  didn’t  think  at  the  time  he  was  a bad  one.  We  then  started  for 
him,  and  just  before  we  reached  him  he  “ settled,”  and  the  next  thing 
I saw  was  his  back  close  to  our  boat.  I told  Lambert,  the  boat-steerer, 
to  “give  it  to  him.”  As  soon  as  he  struck  him  the  whale  raised  his 
flukes  and  struck  our  boat  four  successive  times,  knocking  her  to  atoms. 
The  first  time  he  struck  her  he  stove  her  badly,  and  she  began  to  fill. 
I noticed  O’Reilly’s  head  drop  as  though  he  was  hurt.  The  rest  of  the 
crew  jumped  into  the  sea  away  from  the  boat,  and  clung  to  their  oars  ; 
I clung  to  the  stern  part  of  the  boat,  that  being  the  only  piece  left  large 
enough  to  hold  a man  up  ; this,  I think,  was  about  ten  feet  long.  I 
missed  O’Reilly,  and  thought  he  must  have  drowned,  as  I knew  he 
was  hurt.  When  the  whale  left  us  the  men  swam  back  to  the  shattered 
boat.  I remember  saying,  “ 0 my  God  ! where  is  Mr.  O’Reilly  ? ” and 
Bolter,  who  was  close  by  my  side,  said,  ‘ ‘ There  he  is,  on  the  other  side, 
under  water.”  I looked,  and  sure  enough,  there  he  was,  about  two 
feet  from  the  surface  of  the  water,  bobbing  up  and  down  like  a cork. 
I threw  myself  over,  and  by  clinging  to  the  broken  keel  with  my  left 
hand,  reached  him  by  the  hair  of  the  head  with  my  right  hand,  and 
hauled  him  on  the  stoven  boat.  I thought  then  he  was  dead,  as  the 
froth  was  running  from  his  nostrils  and  mouth  ; but  a thought  struck 
me,  if  he  was  dead  he  would  have  sunk  : so  I raised  him  up  on  my 
shoulder.  As  I lay  on  the  side  of  the  boat,  with  his  stomach  across  my 
shoulder,  I kept  punching  him  as  much  as  possible  to  get  the  salt 
water  out  of  him.  It  was  several  hours  before  he  realized  anything, 
as  the  ship  was  about  twelve  miles  from  us  to  the  windward,  and  we 
lay  on  the  stoven  boat  a long  time  before  we  were  picked  up  by  Mr. 
Bryan,  the  fourth  mate.  The  next  day  after  this  happened,  as  Mr. 
O’Reilly  was  lying  in  his  bunk,  suffering  from  the  blow  of  the  whale’s 
flukes,  he  said,  “ Oh,  Hathaway,  why  didn’t  you  let  me  go  ?”  I told 
him  to  keep  quiet— that  he  would  live  to  see  better  days  ; but  he 
couldn’t  see  it.  We  don’t  see  far  ahead,  after  all, — do  we  ? The  next 
time  we  saw  whales  he  came  to  me  and  said  he  would  like  to  go  with 
me  again.  I told  him,  “No,  he  had  got  out  of  one  scrape,  and  had 
better  rest  contented.”  But  he  insisted  on  going,  and  I consented,  as 
he  said  he  wanted  revenge.  We  were  lucky  enough  that  day  to  get  a 
good  big  fellow,  and  I think  he  had  his  revenge,  as  we  minced  him  up 
pretty  well.  I think  it  was  the  death  of  that  whale  that  suggested  his 
poem  of  ‘ ‘ The  Amber  Whale.” 


What  Hathaway  modestly  omits  from  this  narrative  is 
the  fact  that,  after  bravely  holding  his  friend  so  long  above 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


water,  in  that  heavy  sea,  the  terrible  strain  overcame  him 
when  relief  arrived.  He  fainted  away  after  seeing  that 
O’  Reilly  was  safe,  and  lay  insensible  for  four  hours. 

Two  months  later  the  Gazelle  put  into  the  harbor  of 
Roderique,  a small  British  island  in  the  Indian  Ocean,  to 
take  in  a supply  of  fresh  water.  O’Reilly’s  escape  had 
been  telegraphed  to  that  and  other  quarters.  Just  before 
sunset  on  the  day  of  her  arrival,  a boat  came  alongside  with 
the  Governor  of  the  island  and  a guard  of  police  on  board. 
Hathaway  was  on  the  ship’s  deck  ; beside  him  stood 
O’Reilly. 

“ Have  you  a man  on  board  named  John  Boyle  O’Reil- 
ly was  the  officer’s  first  question.  Hathaway  knew  no- 
body of  that  name,  but,  on  the  official’s  describing  him, 
remembered  that  a man  answering  such  a description,  but 
named  Brown,  had  been  on  board,  and  died  two  months 
before  in  the  Straits  of  Sunda.  “Brown”  was  the  name 
by  which  O’  Reilly  went,  on  board  the  Gazelle . 

The  Governor  thereupon  demanded  that  the  crew  be 
mustered  for  inspection,  and  the  men  were  accordingly 
drawn  up  in  a row.  One  stowaway  was  promptly  recog- 
nized as  a fugitive  from  justice,  and  put  under  arrest,  but 
the  officers  found  nobody  answering  to  the  description  of 
No.  9843.  The  convict  Martin  Bowman  would  have  es- 
caped, too,  but  for  his  own  savage  conduct.  Ever  since  his 
arrival  on  the  ship  he  had  been  the  bully  of  the  forecastle. 

Among  the  sufferers  from  his  brutality  was  a young 
English  sailor  who  could  not  lose  so  good  a chance  of  get- 
ting rid  of,  and  even  with,  his  tormentor.  The  officers  had 
passed  Bowman  by  when  this  young  sailor,  with  a jerk  of 
his  thumb  and  a knowing  look,  indicated  him  as  a suspi- 
cious character.  He  was  accordingly  subjected  to  a closer 
examination,  recognized,  put  under  arrest  and  taken  to  the 
gangway.  As  he  went  over  the  side  he  turned  to  O’  Reilly, 
and  with  a wicked  leer  said,  “ Good-by,  shipmate.”  The 
action  and  words  were  marked.  O’Reilly  well  knew  what 
they  meant,— that  Bowman  had  singled  him  out  so  that 
the  officers  would  remember  him,  when,  after  reaching 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


87 


shore,  the  convict  should  offer  to  compound  for  his  own 
absconding  by  giving  up  the  other  and  more  important 
fugitive.* 

As  soon  as  the  boat  had  departed  Hathaway  and  O’  Reilly 
held  a council  of  war.  Capt.  Gifford  was  fortunately  on 
shore.  It  would  have  been  a serious  thing  for  him  to  risk 
his  ship,  and  perhaps  his  freedom,  by  protecting  a fugitive 
felon  from  recapture.  O’Reilly  was  desperate,  but  firm 
in  his  determination  not  to  be  taken  alive.  He  had  ob- 
tained a revolver,  and  was  prepared  to  sell  his  life  dearly 
rather  than  be  taken  back  to  the  penal  settlement  and  the 
inevitable  horrors  of  the  chain-gang.  Hathaway  was  deeply 
stirred,  but  retained  his  coolness,  as  the  Yankee  sailor 
does  in  every  emergency. 

“Leave  this  thing  to  me,”  he  said,  “ and  I think  I can 
study  out  some  better  way  of  settling  it.” 

By  this  time  it  had  become  dark.  The  men  were  all  be- 
low except  the  anchor  watch.  There  was  a kind  of  locker 
under  the  cabin  companion-way,  which  was  used  sometimes 
by  the  steward  to  store  dishes,  etc.  It  was  large  enough  to 
hold  a man,  with  some  squeezing,  and  was  covered  by  one 
of  the  stair  boards.  The  Dartmoor  cells  were  more  roomy, 
but  less  comfortable. 

Hathaway  quickly  formed  his  plan  and  unfolded  it  to 
O’Reilly.  It  was  for  the  latter  to  walk  aft  with  a small 
grindstone,  which  happened  to  be  at  hand,  lean  over  the 
rail,  and,  at  the  first  favorable  opportunity,  throw  the 
grindstone  and  his  hat  overboard,  then  slipping  down  the 
companion-way  take  refuge  in  the  locker. 

Hathaway  went  forward  and  engaged  the  watch  in  talk, 
standing  so  as  to  obstruct  the  view  of  O’Reilly,  at  the  same 
time  that  he  gave  the  watch  instructions  to  keep  a sharp 
eye  on  the  latter,  who,  he  said,  was  desperate,  and  might 
try  to  do  away  with  himself;  “for,”  he  continued,  “he 
tried  to  kill  himself  in  Australia,  before  we  took  him  off.” 

* It  may  be  worth  noting  here,  that,  in  writing  his  Moondyne,”  O’Reilly 
gave  the  name  of  Bowman  to  the  villain  of  the  story,  even  as  he  remembered 
his  generous  friends,  the  Maguires,  by  name  in  the  same  book. 


88 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


Just  then  there  was  a loud  splash  in  the  water. 
4 4 What’ s that  ? ’ ’ exclaimed  Hathaway.  u It’ s O’  Reilly, ’ ’ 
cried  the  watch;  “he  has  thrown  himself  overboard.” 
“ Man  overboard,”  was  instantly  shouted,  and  brought  the 
crew  on  deck.  Four  boats  were  lowered  and  searched  the 
water  for  an  hour.  They  found  only  O’  Reilly’ s hat,  though 
one  of  the  crew,  with  a sailor’s  vivid  imagination,  swore 
that  he  had  caught  a glimpse  of  a drowning  man’s  face,  and 
knew  it  to  be  O’Reilly’s.  When  Hathaway’s  boat  came 
back  from  its  fruitless  quest,  he  found  the  second  mate 
leaning  over  the  side,  and  crying  bitterly:  “He’s  gone, 
poor  fellow  ! here’s  his  hat.  The  men  have  just  picked  it 
up.  We’ll  never  see  him  again.” 

Next  morning  there  was  grief  on  board  the  Gazelle.  The 
flag  at  half-mast  brought  out  the  captain  in  a shore  boat 
to  learn  the  sad  news.  O’Reilly’s  wet  hat  lay  on  the 
hatch-way.  Immediately  afterward  came  the  police  boat 
with  the  Governor,  and  Convict  Bowman  ready  to  identify 
his  prey.  The  unmistakable  sincerity  of  the  men’s  grief 
satisfied  the  officials.  On  the  evening  of  the  same  day  the 
Gazelle  went  to  sea  unmolested.  As  soon  as  they  were 
well  clear  of  the  land,  Hathaway  said  to  the  captain  (I 
give  his  own  story) : 

“ 4 I guess  I’ll  go  below  and  get  a cigar.’  I went  and 
hauled  the  step  away,  and  there  was  O’Reilly  all  in  a heap. 
I can  see  his  face  right  before  me  now,  white  as  chalk  ; eyes 
as  black  as  night.  He  looked  like  a wild  man. 

4 4 4 What  now  1 ’ says  he,  trembling  all  over. 

4 4 4 Come  out  of  that,’  says  I. 

4 4 4 What  do  you  mean? ’ says  he. 

4 4 4* Don’t  stop  to  ask  questions,  man,’  says  I ; 4 get  out 
of  that  and  come  up  ; you’re  safe  for  this  time.  Land  is 
almost  out  of  sight.’ 

44  He  crawled  out,  and  we  went  on  deck  together. 

4 4 4 Now,’  says  I,  4 go  and  shake  hands  with  the  captain.’ 

44 1 went  to  the  side  of  the  ship  and  stood  there  smok- 
ing, and  pretending  to  be  scanning  the  horizon.  I saw  the 
captain  give  one  look  at  him,  a kind  of  scared  look.  He 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES.  89 

thought  it  was  his  ghost.  Then  he  wrung  O’Reilly’s  hand, 
and  burst  out  crying,  just  like  a baby. 

“ Pretty  soon  he  looked  at  me.  I never  said  a word. 

“ ‘Did  that  fellow  have  anything  to  do  with  it?’  says 
he.” 

Capt.  Frederick  Hussey,  who  was  first  officer  of  the 
Gazelle  at  the  time,  expresses  his  belief  that  the  Governor 
was  “not  so  badly  fooled  as  we  thought.  When  Bowman 
was  arraigned  in  court,  he  commenced  to  tell  the  story  of 
O’Reilly,  when  the  Governor  commanded  : ‘ Be  silent,  sir.’ 
Again  he  attempted  to  speak,  when  the  Governor  arose  and 
said  : 4 If  you  speak  again,  I’ll  have  you  gagged.’  When 
he  saw  our  flag  at  half  mast,  he  inquired  the  reason  for  it, 
and  ordered  it  down.  I believe  he  wished  to  prevent  div- 
ing or  dragging  for  the  body,  for  I have  since  heard  that 
his  wife  was  a loyal  Irish  woman.” 

The  much-abused  word  “loyal  ” is  for  once  well  applied, 
if  Capt.  Hussey’s  information  was  correct  as  to  the  nation- 
ality of  the  Governor’s  wife. 

The  Gazelle"  s next  landfall  was  to  be  made  at  the  Island 
of  St.  Helena,  the  prison-rock  on  which  the  British  nation 
chained,  and  tortured,  and  fretted  to  death  the  great  sol- 
dier who  had  weakly  trusted  to  their  magnanimity.  It  was 
not  to  be  expected  that  the  secret  of  O’Reilly’s  identity 
could  be  kept  by  the  whole  ship’s  crew,  especially  after 
the  Roderique  episode  ; so  Captain  Gifford  reluctantly  de- 
termined to  part  with  his  passenger  ere  reaching  that  port. 
The  American  bark  Sapphire,  of  Boston,  bound  from  Bom- 
bay to  Liverpool,  commanded  by  Captain  E.  J.  Seiders, 
was  spoken  on  July  29,  off  the  Cape  of  Good  Hope,  and 
agreed  to  give  a passage  home  to  seaman  “John  Soule,” 
O’Reilly  having  adopted  for  the  nonce  the  name  and  papers 
of  a man  who  had  deserted  from  the  Gazelle.  Honest  sail- 
ors soon  learn  to  trust  one  another,  and  Captain  Seiders 
was  taken  into  the  confidence  of  his  countryman,  repay- 
ing it  by  giving  O’Reilly  a state-room  in  his  cabin  and  treat- 
ing him  with  every  kindness. 

The  generosity  of  Gifford  did  not  stop  with  commend- 


90 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


ing  the  fugitive  to  his  countryman  ; all  the  ready  money 
that  he  had  in  his  possession  he  put  into  O’Reilly’s  hands 
at  parting,  and  when  the  young  man,  deeply  touched  by 
such  generous  confidence,  would  have  remonstrated,  say- 
ing : “I  may  never  reach  America ; I may  never  be  able  to 
repay  you”— the  big-hearted  sailor  merely  replied  : 

“ If  you  never  reach  America,  I shall  be  very  sorry  for 
you  ; if  you  are  never  able  to  repay  me,  I shall  not  be  much 
the  poorer ; but  I hope  you  will  reach  America,  and  I am 
sure  you  will  pay  me  if  you  can.”  His  confidence  was  not 
misplaced.  Four  years  later  O’Reilly’s  first  book  of  poems 
was  published,  and  bore  this  dedication : 

TO 

CAPTAIN  DAVID  R GIFFORD, 

Of  the  whaling  bark  Gazelle,  of  New  Bedford, 

I DEDICATE  THIS  BOOK. 

In  February,  1869,  I left  the  coast  of  Western  Australia  in  a small 
boat  without  a sail.  Peculiar  circumstances  rendered  it  impossible 
that  I should  return.  My  only  path  lay  across  the  Indian  Ocean.  It 
pleased  God  that  my  boat  was  seen  from  the  masthead  of  the  Gazelle , 
commanded  by  Captain  Gifford,  who  picked  me  up  and  treated  me 
with  all  kindness  during  a seven  months’  whaling  cruise.  On  parting 
with  me  at  the  Cape  of  Good  Hope  he  lent  me  twenty  guineas  to  help 
me  on  my  way  to  America.  One  of  the  greatest  pleasures  this  little 
book  can  ever  afford  me  is  the  writing  of  this  dedication. 

Captain  Gifford  never  saw  this  grateful  tribute.  He 
died  ere  the  volume  could  reach  him,  but  not  ere  his  trust 
in  the  author’s  gratitude  had  been  amply  justified. 

O’ Reilly  found  it  even  a harder  task  to  part  with  his 
warm  friend  and  messmate  Hathaway.  The  two  were 
almost  equal  in  years,  with  kindred  buoyancy  of  spirits, 
and  a deeper  undercurrent  of  earnestness  which  made  each 
respect  and  love  the  other.  Between  them  existed  that 
love,  4 4 passing  the  love  of  women,”  which  only  men  of 
noblest  mould  may  feel  or  understand. 

In  the  poet’s  well  stocked  library  were  many  volumes, 
the  gifts  of  admiring  friends  of  all  degrees  of  life.  Some 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


91 


were  autograph  copies  from  men  of  world- wide  fame  ; but 
the  volume  which  he  cherished  most  fondly  was  an  old, 
sea-flavored,  weather-beaten  manuscript  book,  the  private 
“log”  of  Henry  Hathaway.  A few  months  before  his 
death  he  showed  it  to  me,  with  such  a look  of  fond  pride 
and  pleasure  as  only  he  could  wear  when  testifying  to  the 
love  and  tenderness  of  another.  * Truly  it  was  a volume  on 
whose  pages  any  man  might  be  proud  to  be  chronicled  as 
he  is.  A few  extracts  will  show  the  character  of  this 
singular  record,  which  was  begun  three  hours  after  the 
parting  of  the  friends  and  continued  to  the  end  of  the 
voyage : 

Ship  Gazelle , July  29,  1869. 

Dear  Old  Fellow  : 

I am  now  seated  at  the  old  donkey,  where  we’ve  sat  side  by  side 
for  the  last  five  months,  more  or  less,  and  have  been  reading  over  some 
of  your  pieces  of  poetry,  and  it  makes  me  lonesome,  although  we  have 
not  been  parted  as  yet  hardly  three  hours,  and  thank  God  we  have 
lived  and  parted  as  friends  ; and  thinking,  perhaps,  in  after  years  you 
would  like  to  know  the  transactions  of  the  remainder  of  this  voyage,  I 
shall  endeavor  to  write  a little,  once  in  a while,  hoping  it  may  prove 
interesting  to  you.  Most  everybody  on  board  is  talking  about  you,  and 
they  all  wish  you  good  luck  in  your  undertaking,  and  all  that  I have 
got  to  say  is,  ‘ ‘ Good  speed,  and  God  bless  you ! ” 

Friday  Evening,  July  80. — Again  I am  seated,  to  add  another  line 
or  two.  This  morning  there  were  six  sails  in  sight,  and  I suppose  the 
Sapphire  was  one  of  the  six.  The  old  man  told  me  this  morning  that 
he  thought  you  would  go  home  with  us  yet.  He  says  that  if  we  get  to 
St.  Helena  first  he  will  take  you  on  board  again,  and  as  much  as  I 
would  like  to  have  you  here,  I hope  and  trust  that  you  are  safe  where 
you  are  ; God  bless  you,  old  fellow  ! Good-night  ! 

Saturday  Evening,  31st. — It  is  now  blowing  a gale  from  the  west- 
ward, and  the  old  ship  is  lying  to  under  reefed  foresail  and  close  reefed 
main  topsail,  and  I have  got  the  blues  the  worst  kind,  and  am  as  home- 
sick as  can  be : 

Friend  after  friend  departs  ; 

Who  hath  not  lost  a friend  ? 

There  is  no  union  here  of  hearts 

That  finds  not  here  an  end. — J.  Montgomery. 

Tuesday  Evening,  August  3.— Yesterday  I did  not  write,  as  it  was 
blowing  a gale  of  wind  ; but  this  evening,  as  it  is  fine  weather,  I will  add 
another  line  or  two.  Since  this  head  wind  commenced  we  have  lost 


92 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


about  fifty  miles  of  our  course,  but  I think  the  prospects  are  good  now 
to  get  it  back  again,  and  perhaps  a little  more.  Everybody  on  board 
seems  to  be  in  good  spirits  to-day,  except  myself.  There  are  four  ships 
in  sight,  and  if  either  of  them  is  the  Sapphire  I wish  she  would  come 
close  to  us,  for  I would  really  like  to  know  how  you  are  getting  along. 
I told  Captain  G.  that  I felt  confident  that  you  are  all  right  with  that 
captain,  as  I liked  the  looks  of  him  the  moment  I set  eyes  on  him. 

Wednesday  Evening,  4th. — Well,  John,  evening  has  once  more 
thrown  her  sable  mantle  around  us,  and  I am  seated  once  more  in  my 
little  nine-by-seven  to  add  another  line  to  this  puzzle.  This  is  the 
thirteenth  anniversary  of  my  seafaring  life,  and  I hope  (if  God  spares 
my  life)  before  the  next  thirteen  expires,  I shall  be  in  better  circumstances 
than  at  present,  although  I suppose  it  is  folly  to  think  of  the  hereafter 
(in  regard  to  worldly  things) ; yet  it  is  but  natural,  if  we  have  a mind  of 
our  own,  and  wish  to  gain  fame.  There  are  but  two  sails  in  sight  to-day, 
and  I think  the  old  Sapphire  is  out  of  sight  and  I hope  ahead  of  us,  as 
I wish  you  good  speed.  Lat.  34  deg.  50  min.  S.,  long.  27  deg.  12  min.  E. 

Thursday,  5 th. — All  this  day  fine  breezes  from  the  N.N.  W.  We  are 
now  within  about  five  degrees  of  longitude  of  the  Cape,  and  I hope  and 
pray  that  this  breeze  will  take  us  around,  and  I should  like  to  arrive  at 
St.  Helena  one  or  two  days  ahead  of  you,  so  that  you  may  come  back 
to  us  again,  as  I think  you  will  be  much  safer  here. 

Everybody  on  board  seems  to  be  in  good  spirits,  except  Mr.  Bryan, 
and  he  has  been  groaning  all  day  about  his  old  friend,  you  know  who  it 
is,  therefore  I will  call  no  names.  There  is  but  one  sail  in  sight  to-day, 
and  he  is  close  to  us,  and  I think  is  an  Englishman  ; therefore  I know 
that  the  old  Sapphire  is  out  of  sight.  Good-night,  old  boy  ! May  the 
good  spirit  that  has  watched  over  you  so  far  still  continue  to  do  so. 
Our  latitude  by  observation  is  35  deg.  33  min.,  and  longitude  23  deg. 
37  min.  E. 

Saturday,  7th. — To-day  we  have  a fair  wind  again,  and  are  scud- 
ding off  at  the  rapid  rate  of  about  three  knots  per  hour,  but  I think  the 
prospects  are  fair  for  a strong  breeze  to-night. 

Wednesday,  11th. — This  has  been  a beautiful  day,  such  a one  as  you 
used  to  like  when  you  were  on  board.  The  wind  has  been  very  light, 
but  fair.  We  find  ourselves,  by  observation,  about  two  miles  from  the 
Cape,  and  I hope  and  trust  we  may  pass  it  before  morning.  I have 
thought  a great  deal  about  you  to-day,  and  wonder  how  you  are  get- 
ting along,  and  something  tells  me  that  you  are  all  right.  God  grant 
that  it  is  so,  old  fellow  ; and  may  the  Being  whose  ever  watchful  eye 
is  upon  us  watch  over  and  comfort  you  in  all  your  troubles  ; and  don’t, 
for  Heaven’s  sake,  John  (whatever  your  troubles  may  be),  give  up 
your  evening  practice.  Good-night,  old  boy  ! God  bless  you  ! Our 
latitude  is  about  35  deg.  45  min.  S.,  and  longitude  18  deg.  42  min.  E. 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


93 


Friday,  13th.— The  biggest  part  of  this  day  we  have  had  strong 
breezes  from  the  W.S.W.,  and  have  been  steering  by  the  wind  on  the 
port  tack,  and  heading  from  N.N.W.  to  N.W.  by  N.  There  is  one 
sail  in  sight  astern  of  us,  and  I have  wondered  several  times  to-day 
whether  it  is  the  Sapphire  or  not.  I hope  it  is,  and  wish  we  could 
have  good  weather  to  gain.  Our  latitude  is  34  deg.  55  min.  S.,  and 
longitude  17  deg.  53  min.  E.,  so,  as  you  see,  we  have  passed  the  Cape 
of  Good  Hope. 

Saturday,  14th.— This  has  been  a beautiful  day,  with  light  breezes 
from  the  S.E.,  and  we  have  been  engaged  sending  aloft  our  mizzen  top- 
sail and  yards.  There  are  two  ships  in  sight,  one  of  them  close  to  us 
and  the  other  about  fifteen  miles  distant.  The  one  that  is  close  to  us  is 
a large  Englishman,  that  was  close  to  us  the  day  after  you  went  on 
board  the  Sapphire  ; but  the  other  we  can’t  tell  what  he  is,  but  I hope 
it  is  the  Sapphire  ; if  it  is,  I think  we  will  get  to  St.  Helena  about  the 
same  time.  Our  latitude  is  about  33  deg.  40  min.  S.,  but  the  longitude  I 
have  not  yet  ascertained. 

Sunday,  15th. — This  has  been  another  beautiful  day,  and  we  have 
had  a nice  little  breeze  from  the  south.  There  is  but  one  ship  in  sight, 
and  he  is  nearly  out  of  sight  ahead  of  us.  Our  latitude  is  33  deg.  S., 
and  longitude  13  deg.  55  min.  E. 

Monday  Evening,  16th. — All  of  this  day  we  have  had  a strong 
breeze  from  the  south,  and  have  made  a good  distance  toward  our 
destination.  There  are  two  ships  in  sight,  one  astern,  and  the  other  on 
the  port  quarter,  but  so  far  away  that  we  cannot  make  out  whether 
either  of  them  is  the  Sapphire , or  not.  Everybody  on  board 
seems  to  be  in  good  spirits  to-day,  as  is  generally  the  case  when 
we  have  a fair  wind.  Our  latitude  is  31  deg.  35  min.  S.,  and  longitude 
12  deg.  E. 

Wednesday,  18th. — The  fore  part  of  this  day  we  had  beautiful 
weather  and  light  breezes  from  the  S.E.,  and  this  afternoon  we  have 
had  a good  breeze,  and  a thick  fog,  and  everything  looks  as  gloomy  as 
old  boots.  The  same  two  ships  that  have  been  in  sight  for  the  last  two 
days  are  still  in  sight,  two  points  on  our  starboard  bow,  and  another  one 
on  the  port  quarter.  Lambert  just  came  in  and  asked  me  if  I did  not 
feel  well,  as  he  noticed  I looked  downhearted,  and  I had  to  turn  him 
off  with,  “Oh,  well  enough,”  but  I have  got  the  blues  like  smoke,  so — 
Good-night  ! Latitude  29  deg.  30  min.  S.,  longitude  about  9 deg.  E. 

Monday,  23d. — I did  not  write  yesterday,  as  I had  the  blues  the 
worst  kind  ; but  this  evening,  as  I feel  a little  better,  I will  scratch  a 
line  or  two.  We  have  had  strong  breezes  all  day  and  the  old  ship  is 
trotting  along  about  eight  knots  per  hour.  If  this  breeze  lasts  until 
Friday,  I think  we  will  be  at  St.  Helena.  Every  one  on  board  is 
enjoying  good  health,  and  most  of  us  are  in  good  spirits,  and  I hope 


94 


JOHN  BOYLE  O'REILLY. 


and  pray  that  you  are  enjoying  the  same  blessing.  Good-night,  old 
boy  ! Latitude  21  deg.  50  min.  S.,  longitude  1 deg.  E. 

Thursday,  26th. — All  of  this  day  we  have  light  airs  and  calms,  and 
have  made  but  little  distance.  There  are  but  two  sails  in  sight  to-day  ; 
one  of  them  is  the  same  one  that  we  gained  on  the  20th.  The  land,  by 
our  reckoning,  is  about  sixty  miles  distant,  and  I hope  that  we  will 
come  to  anchor  to-morrow.  Everybody  seems  to  be  in  good  spirits  to- 
day. I suppose  it  is  because  we  are  close  to  port,  and  I would  give 
considerable  if  it  were  New  Bedford  instead  of  St.  Helena,  and  that  you 
were  here  with  us  ; but  perhaps  it  is  all  for  the  best  as  it  is,  and  I trust 
God  that  it  is,  old  fellow.  Good-night  and  God  bless  you  ! Our  lati- 
tude is  about  16  deg.  20  min.,  and  longitude  5 deg.  W. 

Saturday,  28th. — This  morning  we  came  at  anchor,  and  we  find 
that  the  Sapphire  has  not  been  here  as  yet,  and  as  everything  is  quiet 

and  no  danger,  I hope  she  will  come  in  before  we  leave The 

day  that  we  came  at  anchor  there  were  fifteen  ships  anchored  here, 
thirteen  merchantmen,  the  whaling  bark  Ohio , and  )he  old  Gazelle  ; 
and  now,  old  fellow,  as  I cannot  think  of  anything  else  to  write  that 
will  interest  you,  I will  bid  you  adieu,  and  lay  this  book  aside  for  the 
present,  for  it  makes  me  lonesome  every  time  that  I write  in  it.  My 
prayer  is  that  the  old  Sapphire  will  have  favorable  winds  and  make  a 
speedy  passage,  and  that  you  may  be  fortunate  enough  when  you 
arrive  in  England  to  get  a ship  bound  direct  to  America.  Good-by,  old 
fellow,  and  may  God  in  his  infinite  mercy  watch  over  and  bless  you  ! 

November  9. — Dear  old  fellow,  it  is  my  dog  watch  below,  and  I 
have  spent  most  of  it  in  playing  the  flutina,  and  reading  over  some  of 
your  poetry,  but  I will  improve  the  few  moments  that  are  left  me  in 
adding  another  line  or  two  to  this.  I hope  and  pray,  old  boy,  that 
before  this  time  you  have  sodded  your  hoof  on  Yankee  shores,  and  I 
wish  that  I were  there  with  you  (yet,  Thy  will  be  done,  O God  ! not 
mine).  The  old  man  has  been  in  here  this  evening,  showing  me  some 
abstract  of  a right  whale  voyage,  and  he  has  asked  for  my  opinion 
about  going  there,  but  I gave  him  no  encouragement,  knowing  that  if 
we  leave  here  we  will  lose  our  letters  again.  Oh,  dear,  I wish  this 
voyage  was  over ! I haven’t  had  a letter  from  home  for  sixteen  months, 
and  I have  got  the  blues  like  old  boots,  so  I will  bid  you  a good-night, 
and  light  a cigar  and  go  on  deck,  and  tramp,  tramp,  tramp  away,  and 
build  castles.  Lat.  34  deg.  S.,  long.  50  deg.  W. 

November  25. — Again  I am  seated  by  my  old  donkey,  with  pen  in 
hand,  to  scratch  another  line  or  two.  I have  been  reading  to  Mr. 
Bryan  a political  piece  which  I found  in  an  English  paper,  and  I tell 
you  what,  he  is  raving  mad.  He  has  got  one  of  his  old  political  fits  on, 
and  I would  that  you  might  see  him  now.  The  piece  is  about  a Mr. 
Roebuck,  an  English  orator,  and,  when  I left  Mr.  Bryan  on  deck  about 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


95 


ten  minutes  ago,  he  was  calling  him  everything  that  he  could  lay  his 
tongue  to.  It  is  four  months  to-morrow  since  you  left  us,  and  I hope 
and  trust  that  you  are  quietly  settled  down  in  Yankee  town.*  Since 
you  left  we  have  not  seen  the  spout  of  a sperm  whale,  which  makes  the 
time  naturally  hang  rather  heavy.  For  pastime  I have  taken  the  rig- 
ging off  from  my  little  vessel,  and  am  going  to  rig  her  again,  and  have 
also  made  about  half  a dozen  canes.  By  the  way,  I was  looking  at 
your  cane  yesterday,  and  I must  shortly  polish  it,  and  if  I am  unfor- 
tunate enough  not  to  meet  you  again,  I shall  certainly  send  it  to  your 
father  as  I promised  you.  The  tress  of  hair  is  also  safe,  and  if  I do  not 
see  you  again  I will  do  with  it  as  I told  you  I would.  The  old  man  has 
made  his  schooner  for  Jimmy,  and  has  got  her  all  rigged,  and  the  sails 
on.  Mariano,  Mr.  Joseph,  John  Vitrene,  Bill  Malay,  and  the  boy 
Andrew  are  each  building  a vessel  ; but  I have  seen  none  yet  equal  to 
the  one  that  poor  Carpenter  built,  and  which  I have  in  my  possession. 
No  doubt  you  often  think  of  the  night  that  we  lost  him,  and  of  the 
narrow  escape  that  you  had  but  a short  time  after,  and  I have  been 
thankful  a great  many  times  that  I did  not  leave  the  boat,  for  if  I had 
you  certainly  would  have  perished.  Now  as  it  is  about  time  to  shorten 
sail  for  the  night,  I will  bid  you  good-night  and  go  on  deck.  Long. 
38  deg.  50  min.  W.,  lat.  23  deg.  20  min.  S. 

Saturday,  December  18 I often  think  of  you  and  ask  my- 

self if  there  is  any  doubt  about  your  safety,  and  while  others  think 
there  is,  Paterson,  for  instance,  I think  there  is  no  doubt,  old  boy,  but 
you  are  on  Yankee  soil,  and,  with  the  help  of  God,  I will  soon  be  with 
you;  and  I hope  the  time  is  not  far  hence  when  some  of  your  old 
friends  from  Australia  will  be  with  you,  enjoying  freedom  instead  of 
bondage.  Bondage,  do  I call  it  ! Worse  than  bondage,  for  the  slave 
in  bondage  has  no  one  to  scorn  him  but  his  master,  while  those  gentle- 
men are  suffering  the  scorn  of  a whole  nation,  and  what  is  it  for  ? 
Just  for  upholding  their  rights.  God  bless  them  ! and  may  the  time 
soon  arrive  when  they  will  have  a helping  hand  to  assist  them  in  escap- 
ing.! There  goes  eight  bells. 

Sunday,  January  30,  1870. — Another  week  has  passed  away,  and 
the  shades  of  evening  are  once  more  gathered  over  us.  It  is  my  dog 
watch  below,  and  I have  been  reading  the  Bible,  and  playing  hymn 
tunes  on  the  flutina  ; and  now,  as  I have  a few  leisure  moments  before 
going  on  duty,  I will  improve  them  in  writing  to  you,  hoping  that,  by 
and  by,  when  you  come  to  peruse  these  pages,  you  may  be  interested, 
for  I know  that  you  will  want  to  know  some  of  the  proceedings  of  your 


* O’Reilly  had  then  been  just  two  days  in  the  ‘ ‘ Yankee  town”  of  Philadelphia, 
t O’Reilly  and  Hathaway  had  even  then  planned,  among  their  other  air- 
castles,  the  one  which  they  were  to  carry  out  successfully  seven  years  later — of 
rescuing  the  other  forlorn  captives  in  Australia. 


96 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


old  shipmates.  The  old  man  is  as  dry  as  ever,  and  once  in  a while  he 
repeats  over  his  old  whaling  stories,  but  he  always  turns  out  to  be  the 
hero  himself,  although  he  seldom  speaks  evil  of  any  one.  I have  not 
had  a talk  with  him  about  you  for  a long  time  ; but,  whenever  I have, 
he  has  always  spoken  well  of  you.  Mr.  Bryan  is  the  same  old  stick, 
and  as  hot  in  political  affairs  as  ever,  and  is  about  as  sick  of  this  voyage 
as  I am.  The  remainder  of  the  officers  and  all  the  crew  are  well  ; some 
appear  to  be  content,  while  others  look  blue  enough.  It  is  about  time 
for  me  to  go  on  deck ; so  I will  offer  up  a prayer  to  the  Maker  of  all 
things  for  your  success,  and  go  to  duty.  Good-night. 

Sunday  Evening,  third  month,  sixth  day. — Once  more  I am  seated 
to  pen  another  line  or  two.  Since  I last  wrote,  we  have  been  engaged 
fitting  ship  for  home,  and  I think  we  will  start  for  home  about  the  20th 
of  this  month.  We  have  gained  with  two  ships  lately,  and  have  got 
papers  as  late  as  January  15.  I am  as  homesick  as  old  boots,  and  wish 
for  the  time  to  fly.  We  are  all  as  well  as  common,  and  I hope,  old 
fellow,  that  you  are  enjoying  the  same  blessing.  I hope  things  are 
properly  arranged  by  this  time  for  the  expedition  that  we  were  talking 
about,  for  I will  be  ready  in  a short  time  to  start  on  that  errand  of 
mercy.*  Good-night,  old  hoy  ! 

Wednesday,  fourth  month,  fifth  day.— It  is  my  watch  below  and  I 
have  been  trying  to  sleep,  but  I find  it  impossible  to  do  so,  as  I am  con- 
tinually thinking  about  home  and  friends.  We  have  been  lying  here, 
within  a thousand  miles  of  home,  for  the  last  four  or  five  days,  with 
head  wfinds  and  calms,  but  I have  no  doubt  but  that  it  is  all  for  the 
best.  The  wind  is  fair  now,  but  quite  light.  There  are  three  sails  in 
sight,  all  homeward  bound.  May  God  speed  the  plow  ! Good-by. 

Tuesday,  fourth  month,  sixth  day. — I am  once  more  seated  in  my 
little  eight-by-six,  to  add  a few  more  lines  to  this  puzzle,  and  I think 
this  must  be  the  last,  as  I expect  to  be  at  home  in  a few  days.  We  are 
now  off  Cape  Hatteras,  and  it  is  blowing  a gale  from  the  N. W. , but  I 
hope  it  will  soon  change  and  give  us  a fair  wind,  for  most  of  us  have 
got  the  blues  like  old  boots.  Yet  it  is  all  for  the  best.  I hope  that  you 
will  correct  the  many  mistakes  which  you  will  be  likely  to  find  in  pe- 
rusing these  pages,  and  excuse  the  hand-writing,  for  I have  written  it  in 
haste,  doubting  whether  you  would  ever  get  it  or  not.  And  now,  old 
boy,  I will  bid  you  a good-night,  and  hope  to  find  you  safe  and  sound 
in  a few  days.  Our  latitude  by  observation  35  deg.  20  min.  N.,  and 
longitude  70  deg . 5 min.  W. 

This  same  old  log-book  is  rich  in  autograph  treasures  of 
the  boyish  poet ; for  he  had  rioted  all  over  its  pages  while 


* The  “ expedition  ” was  that  referred  to  in  preceding  note. 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


97 


on  board  the  Gazelle.  There,  penciled  in  a bold,  handsome 
hand,  is  the  first  draft  of  his  “ Withered  Snowdrops,”  with 
several  pages  of  his  “ Uncle  Ned’s  Tales,”  and  a rather 
weak  effusion  which  never  grew  any  stronger,  and  which  he 
gravely  introduces  with  the  words : “The  following  little 
poem  is  an  exquisite  bit  of — rubbish.” 

Over  the  nom  de  plume  of  u Old  Blowhard,  Mariner,” 
he  writes  a lot  of  breezy  fun,  such  as  the  following,  which 
will  be  enjoyed  less  for  its  humor  than  as  an  indication  of 
the  author’ s light-lieartedness  and  ready  touch  with  the 
spirit  of  his  surroundings.  It  follows  a serious  signal  code 
in  Hathaway’s  writing,  and  is  entitled  : 

WHALING  SIGNALS-LAST  EDITION. 

BY  OLD  BLOWHARD. 

Flag  at  main — Whales  up. 

Flag  at  mizzen — Whales  down. 

Jib  hauled  up  and  down — Can't  see  any  whales. 

Foretopsail  hauled  up  and  down — Look  out. 

All  the  sails  on  the  ship  hauled  up  and  down — Whales  somewhere. 

Steward  at  the  main — Go  farther  off. 

Steward  waves  his  hat — Whales  all  round  the  ship. 

Lee  clew  of  spanker  boom  hauled  up — Whales  going  to  windward. 

In  another  place  he  writes  the  following : 

RULES  TO  BE  OBSERVED  BY  WHALE  SHIPS  IN  CASE  OF 
FIRE  BY  NIGHT. 

1.  When  the  officer  on  deck  discovers  that  there  is  fire  in  the  ship, 
he  will  wait  with  patience  until  he  sees  the  flames,  which  will  show  him 
exactly  where  the  fire  is.  He  will  then  proceed  at  once  to  call  the 
cook. 

2.  He  will  call  the  captain  and  officers  by  shouting  down  the  cabin : 
“I  think  the  ship  is  on  fire.” 

3.  He  will  then  shake  the  reefs  out  of  the  foresail,  and  haul  up  the 
bunt  of  the  mizzen  topmast  staysail,  at  the  same  time  letting  the  ship 
luff  about  seventeen  points. 

4.  He  will  then  ring  the  bell,  shout,  and  fire  bomb-lances  down  the 
cabin  stairs,  to  bring  every  one  to  a sense  of  danger. 

5.  When  the  captain  comes  on  deck,  he  will  at  once  send  two  men 
to  each  masthead  to  cry  “ Fire  ! ” then  he  will  take  off  the  fore  and 


98 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


main  hatches  to  give  the  wind  a good  chance  of  blowing  out  the  fire. 
He  will  also  cast  off  the  lashings  from  the  casks  on  deck,  and  hoist  the 
weather  clew  of  the  vise-bench  to  steady  the  ship. 

6.  The  cooper’s  chest  should  be  thrown  overboard,  as  it  might  ex- 
plode. 

7.  The  first  and  second  officers  should  see  that  the  port  anchor  be 
taken  in  from  the  bow,  carried  aft,  and  thrown  down  the  main  hatch- 
way. It  is  easy  to  see  the  good  effect  this  may  have.  If  necessary,  the 
starboard  anchor  may  be  thrown  down  the  fore  hold. 

8.  The  third  and  fourth  officers,  at  the  same  time,  will  fire  bomb- 
lances  down  the  lower  hold,  and  when  they  have  fired  away  all  on- 
board, they  will  see  that  the  crew  extinguish  the  fire  down  there  by 
pouring  buckets  of  Stockholm  tar  on  the  flames.  They  will  also  tar 
the  deck  pot  to  prevent  its  catching  fire. 

9.  The  cook  will  throw  the  windlass  overboard,  and  then  capsize  the 
slush  barrel  in  the  waist,  to  prevent  the  men  from  slipping  on  the  wet 
decks. 

10.  The  captain  will  cut  away  all  the  fore  and  main  rigging,  and, 
when  that  is  done,  he  will  call  the  men  down  from  aloft.  They  may 
come  down  the  flying  jib-stay. 

11.  When  the  fire  is  nearly  extinguished  by  these  means,  cut  away 
the  masts  and  rig  a jury  mast  at  the  end  of  the  flying  jib-boom. 

12.  Send  five  men  and  two  officers  to  the  wheel,  and  let  her  luff. 
When  she  gets  round  so  that  the  wind  is  dead  ahead,  then  hoist  the 
spanker  and  let  her  scud. 

13.  Throw  all  the  cargo  overboard  to  make  her  light,  and  head  for 
home. 

N.  B.—  If  those  rules  are  carefully  observed,  it  will  be  found  that  a 
fire  on  board  a ship  is  as  harmless  as  if  it  were  in  a large  gunpowder 
magazine  on  shore. 

DIMENSIONS  OF  VARIOUS  PARTS  OF  A SHIP. 

BY  OLD  BLOWHARD. 

The  main  top-gallant  cross-tree  is  twice  as  long  as  the  flying  jib- 
boom. 

The  jib-boom  should  be  half  as  long  again  as  the  steer  oar  of  the 
larboard  boat.  If  the  larboard  boat  has  no  steer  oar,  make  the  jib-boom 
short  accordingly. 

The  mainyard,  in  all  fast  sailing  vessels,  should  be  about  as  long  as 
a rope. 

The  foreyard  is  half  as  long  as  the  mainyard,  and  three  times  as 
thick. 

In  large  ships,  where  brown  paper  is  used  instead  of  canvas  for  top- 
sails, it  is  not  necessary  to  lace  the  back-stays. 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


99 


The  right  bower  anchor  should  be  as  heavy  as  a large  stone,  and 
should  always  be  kept  warm. 

The  chimney  of  the  cook’s  galley  should  be  eight  times  as  long  as 
the  spanker  boom.  In  clipper  ships  this  length  may  be  doubled. 

Mizzen  top-gallant  yard  should  be  a little  larger  than  a log  of  wood, 
and  heavy  in  proportion. 

On  board  the  Sapphire  O’  Reilly  fell  in  with  another 
passenger,  an  English  gentleman  named  Bailey,  who,  on 
learning  his  story,  took  a warm  interest  in  the  exile,  and 
aided  him  in  securing  passage  for  America,  after  arriving 
at  Liverpool,  on  October  13.  Mr.  Soule,  for  so  O’Reilly 
was  known  to  the  crew,  went  into  a safe  retreat  at  that 
port.  Capt.  Seiders  and  his  mate,  John  Bursley,  with  the 
assistance  of  a generous  English  family,  provided  him  with 
a secure  hiding-place  until  he  could  obtain  passage  on  an 
American  ship,  homeward  bound. 

The  opportunity  was  found  in  the  ship  Bombay , of 
Bath,  Maine.  Captain  Jordan  made  a place  for  him  as 
third  mate  of  the  Bombay . He  would  have  opened  his 

heart  and  purse  to  any  fugitive  from  tyranny.  He  was  not 
disposed  to  shut  either  against  a victim  of  English  injustice  ; 
for  he  was  one  of  the  many  American  shipmasters  who  had 
been  robbed  and  ruined  by  the  Anglo-Confederate  privateer 
Alabama.  Never  did  exile  meet  with  warmer  welcome  to 
freedom  than  O’  Reilly  received  from  the  great-hearted  sea- 
men sailing  under  the  flag  of  the  United  States.  On  the 
evening  of  the  second  day  after  sailing  from  Liverpool, 
Captain  Jordan  called  O’Reilly  on  deck,  and  told  him  they 
were  near  the  coast  of  Ireland,  and  would  see  it  before  the 
sun  went  down.  The  sun  was  very  low,  and  a heavy  bank 
of  cloud  had  risen  up  from  the  horizon,  and  underneath  it 
the  sun’s  rays  fell  down  upon  the  sea. 

“Where  is  the  nearest  part  of  Ireland  ? ” he  asked  of 
the  pilot. 

“There  it  is,  sir ; under  the  sun.” 

Recalling  this  incident,  in  a lecture  delivered  at  Music 
Hall,  Boston,  in  January,  1870,  O’Reilly  said: 

“ They  were  sad  words  ; Ireland  was  there,  under  the 


100 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 

sun  ; but  under  the  dark  cloud  also.  The  rays  of  golden 
glory  fell  down  from  behind  the  dark  cloud — fell  down  like 
God’s  pity  on  the  beautiful,  tear-stained  face  of  Ireland — 
fell  down  on  the  dear  familiar  faces  of  my  old  home,  on 
the  hill,  the  wood,  the  river,  lighting  them  all  once  more 
with  the  same  lieaven-tint  that  I loved  to  watch  long  ago. 
Oh  ! how  vividly  did  that  long  ago  rise  up  before  me  then  ! 
the  happy  home,  the  merry  playmates,  the  faces,  the  voices 
of  dear  ones  who  are  there  still,  and  the  hallowed  words  of 
dearest  ones  who  are  dead, — down  on  all  fell  the  great 
glory  of  the  setting  sun,  lighting  that  holy  spot  that  I 
might  never  see,  a mother’s  grave,  and  lighting  the  heart 
with  sorrow-shaded  devotion.  Home,  friends,  all  that  I 
loved  in  the  world  were  there,  almost  beside  me, — there, 
‘under  the  sun,’  and  I,  for  loving  them,  a hunted,  out- 
lawed fugitive,  an  escaped  convict,  was  sailing  away  from 
all  I treasured, — perhaps,  forever.” 

After  a safe  and  uneventful  voyage  he  landed  at  Phila- 
delphia on  the  twenty-third  day  of  November,  1869,  just 
two  years  from  the  date  of  his  taking  passage  on  the  Hou- 
goumont  for  the  Australian  penal  colony.  His  first  act 
after  landing  was  to  make  a votive  offering  to  Liberty.  He 
presented  himself  before  the  United  States  District  Court 
and  took  out  his  first  papers  of  naturalization. 


CHAPTER  VI. 


Arrival  in  Boston — Untoward  Experience  in  a Steamship  office— Pub- 
lic Lectures — His  Personal  Appearance — Characteristic  Letters— 
Employed  on  The  Pilot — At  the  Front  with  the  Fenians— The 
Orange  Riots  in  New  York— O’Reilly  sharply  condemns  the 
Rioters — A notable  Editorial. 

HE  had  not,  so  far  as  he  knew,  a single  friend  in  all 
America,  but  the  Fenians  had  not  forgotten  him. 
They  had  eagerly  read  the  news  of  his  escape,  and  were 
advised,  through  their  correspondents  in  England,  of  his 
having  taken  passage  on  the  Bombay.  On  the  day  after 
her  arrival,  as  he  was  working  on  the  deck,  a Fenian  dele- 
gate came  on  board  and  accosted  him,  whereupon  ensued 
the  following  dialogue,  as  substantially  told  afterward: 
“They  tell  me  that  Boyle  O’ Reilly’ s on  this  ship.” 

“ Yes.” 

“The  poet  V 
“Yes.” 

“The  man  that  got  away  from  Australia  ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

His  visitor  had  grown  visibly  excited.  At  last  he 
clutched  O’Reilly’s  sleeve,  and  asked : 

“ Where  is  he? ” 

“Here.” 

“ But  where  ? ” 

“I’m  the  man.” 

His  youthful  appearance  and  unassuming  manner  were 
so  out  of  keeping  with  his  romantic  career  that  the  dele- 
gate was  inclined  to  set  him  down  as  an  impostor,  but,  to 
make  sure,  he  invited  the  young  man  to  meet  some  fellow 
Fenians.  O’Reilly  readily  complied,  going  attired  as  he 
was  in  his  sailor  clothes.  The  Fenians,  before  whom  he 
presented  himself,  cross- questioned  him  sharply,  and  were 

101 


102  JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 

so  obviously  incredulous  that  he  grew  a little  impatient  and 
indignantly  said  : 

“ Gentlemen,  I have  not  come  here  to  ask  any  favor  of 
you  nor  to  make  inquiries  about  your  personal  affairs  ; I 
came  at  your  request.  I have  answered  your  questions 
truthfully.  If  you  do  not  choose  to  believe  me,  I cannot 
help  it ; but  as  I did  not  seek  this  interview,  I will  take  my 
leave.”  The  frankness  and  independence  of  the  youth  told 
with  his  inquirers,  and  they  no  longer  doubted  him. 

The  identification,  however,  did  not  prove  of  any  great 
service  to  him.  Nor  was  this  remarkable.  Fenianism  was 
a losing — all  but  a lost,  cause.  Its  enthusiastic  support- 
ers had  given  their  money  and  their  labors,  as  most  of  them 
would  have  gladly  given  their  lives,  in  its  behalf.  Natur- 
ally they  were  poor  men ; he  that  hath  the  envied  talent  of 
money-making  seldom  invests  his  cash  in  sentiment. 

There  was  no  field  for  his  ambition  in  Philadelphia. 
He  went  to  New  York,  and  was  warmly  received  at  the 
headquarters  of  the  Fenians  in  that  city.  By  their  invita- 
tion he  delivered  a lecture  in  the  Cooper  Institute,  on  the 
16th  of  December,  1869.  John  Savage  presided,  and  the 
platform  was  occupied  by  leading  spirits  of  the  Fenian 
movement.  Over  two  thousand  people  greeted  him  with 
enthusiastic  applause,  as  he  told  of  the  sufferings  and 
wrongs  endured  by  himself  and  his  fellow  prisoners.  He 
assured  his  hearers  that  the  revolutionary  movement  had 
permeated  every  branch  of  the  British  army.  He  then 
modestly  recounted  the  incidents  of  his  escape,  and  told, 
with  eloquent  gratitude,  of  the  part  taken  in  it  by  the 
American  captains  of  the  Gazelle  and  Sapphire. 

Successful  as  the  meeting  was,  and  gratifying  to  the 
feelings  of  the  young  lecturer,  it  did  not  give  him  any 
promise,  either  in  his  ambition  to  be  of  material  service  to 
the  Irish  revolutionary  cause,  or  in  the  more  prosaic  and 
pressing  need  of  earning  his  daily  bread.  He  thought,  as 
a practical  man,  though  a poet,  that  both  ends  might  be 
attained  without  the  sacrifice  of  either,  and  he  quickly  saw 
that  New  York  did  not  offer  any  field  for  that  ambition. 


103 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 

He  was  advised  to  go  to  Boston,  and  accordingly  did  so, 
arriving  on  the  2d  of  January,  1870,  and  bearing  letters  of 
introduction  to  Mr.  Thomas  Manning  and  Dr.  Robert 
Dwyer  Joyce  ; he  had  no  other  friends  or  acquaintances  in 
all  New  England.  Mr.  Manning  invited  him  to  the  hospi- 
tality of  his  house.  Dr.  Joyce,  himself  a rare  poet,  and  a 
genial,  kindly  man,  took  a warm  interest  in  him  from  the 
beginning. 

One  of  the  most  prominent  and  ablest  of  the  young 
Irish- Americans  of  Boston  at  that  time  was  Patrick  A. 
Collins,  a lawyer  just  entering  on  his  professional  career, 
an  orator  of  mark,  and  a man  of  affairs  with  a promising 
future.  He  was  a friend  of  Joyce,  and  soon  became  a 
friend  of  O’Reilly.  The  two  consulted  earnestly  over  the 
matter,  and  agreed  that  O’Reilly  was  altogether  too  bright 
a man  to  be  wasted  in  the  barren  career  of  a public  lecturer, 
or  the  still  less  satisfactory  field  of  politics.  The  first  thing 
to  be  done  was  to  secure  for  him  the  comparative  inde- 
pendence which  comes  from  steady  employment.  The  Bos- 
ton Manager  of  the  Inman  Line  Steamship  Company  at  that 
period  was  an  Irishman,  Merrick  S.  Creagh,  an  intimate 
friend  of  both  Collins  and  Joyce. 

On  their  recommendation,  O’Reilly  was  given  a situa- 
tion as  clerk  in  the  company’ s office,  filling  the  place  with 
perfect  satisfaction  to  his  employers  for  four  or  five  weeks. 
At  the  end  of  that  time  Mr.  Creagh  received  a communica- 
tion from  the  general  office  at  home  in  England,  to  the 
effect  that  information  had  been  received  that  he  had  in 
his  employment  an  escaped  convict  named  O’Reilly.  The 
company  did  not  desire  this  young  man  retained  any  longer 
in  their  service.  Some  zealous  Briton  had  doubtless  sent 
this  information  across  the  Atlantic.  Mr.  Creagh  could  do 
nothing  but  obey  his  orders. 

In  the  mean  time,  O’Reilly  had  made  himself  fairly 
well  known  to  his  fellow-countrymen  in  Boston.  He 
lectured  before  a large  audience  in  Music  Hall,  on  Monday 
evening,  January  31,  on  “England’s  Political  Prisoners,” 
and  won  the  immediate  regard  of  his  hearers.  His  hand- 


104 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


some  face  and  charming  manner  would  have  atoned  for  any 
defects  in  his  oratory,  even  with  an  audience  more  critical 
and  less  sympathetic  than  his.  The  personality  which  was 
to  captivate  thousands  in  after  life,  was  reinforced  by  the 
grace  and  enthusiasm  of  fervid  youth. 

Recalling  him  as  he  then  was,  the  abiding  memory  of 
him  is  that  of  his  marvelously  sweet  smile,  and  his  strik- 
ingly clear  and  frank  gaze.  The  beauty  of  his  face  lay 
chiefly  in  his  eyes.  The  official  advertisement  of  his  escape 
says  that  those  eyes  were  brown,  and  prison  descriptions 
are  generally  more  accurate  than  flattering.  Almost  any- 
body, looking  at  him  less  closely,  would  have  said  that  his 
eyes  were  black.  As  a matter  of  fact  they  were  hazel,  but 
his  dark  skin,  and  jet-black  eyebrows  and  hair,  gave  an 
impression  of  blackness  to  the  large,  well -formed  eyes 
beneath.  They  were  very  expressive,  whether  flashing 
with  some  sudden  fancy,  or  glowing  with  a deeper, 
burning  thought,  or  sparkling  with  pure,  boyish  fun. 
There  was  another  expression,  which  they  sometimes  wore 
at  this  period  of  his  life,  and  which  may  be  described,  for 
lack  of  a better  word,  as  a hunted  look — not  a frightened 
or  furtive,  but  an  alert,  watchful  expression,  which  made  it 
easy  to  understand  how  he  could  have  deliberately  armed 
himself,  at  Roderique,  and  again  at  Liverpool,  with  the 
firm  intention  of  surrendering  his  liberty  only  with  his 
life. 

Yet  with  that  determined  look  went  the  gay,  good- 
humored,  fun-loving  soul  which  is  the  Irishman’s  one 
gift  from  Pandora’s  box.  Even  in  Liverpool,  when  a 
fugitive  for  life  and  liberty,  he  could  not  resist  the  temp- 
tation of  indulginghis  English  friend’s  rather  British  sense 
of  humor  by  occasionally  stopping  a policeman  on  the 
street,  and  asking  to  be  directed  to  some  imaginary  destin- 
ation. “ The  idea  of  an  escaped  convict  asking  a bobby  to 
show  him  the  way,”  furnished  an  innocent  source  of  de- 
light to  his  companion,  who,  in  his  turn,  supplied  amuse- 
ment enough  to  O’Reilly.  No  portrait  ever  made  of  him 
does  justice  to  that  which  was  the  great  charm  of  his  coun- 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


105 


tenance,  its  wonderful  light  and  life.  His  eyes  had  the 
depth,  and  fire,  and  mobile  color  of  glowing  carbuncle. 

For  the  rest,  he  had  the  rich  brown  complexion,  so 
familiar  in  after  years,  a small  black  mustache,  only  half 
concealing  his  finely  cut  mouth,  and  revealing  a set  of 
perfectly  white,  regular  teeth. 

His  form  was  slight,  but  erect  and  soldier  like.  He 
carried  his  head  well  raised,  and  a little  thrown  back. 
He  was  a man  whom  not  one  would  pass  without  a second 
glance. 

His  lecture  was  successful,  and  he  immediately  received 
invitations  to  repeat  it  in  Providence,  Salem,  Lawrence, 
and  other  towns.  Precarious  as  were  his  means  of  support 
at  this  time,  he  never  parted  with  his  independence,  as  the 
following  characteristic  letter  will  show.  It  is  dated  : 

Boston,  February  23,  1870. 

Colonel  John  O’Mahony: 

Dear  Sir : I am  sorry  that  your  letter  has  remained  unanswered 
until  now.  I was  absent  from  Boston  and  did  not  receive  it.  Will 
you,  in  returning  this  check  for  ten  pounds  to  the  Ladies1  Committee 
in  Ireland,  express  my  deep  gratitude  for  their  thoughtful  kindness? 
Of  course,  I cannot  accept  it.  There  are  many  in  Ireland— many  who 
suffer  from  the  loss  of  their  bread-winners  in  the  old  cause — they  want 
it ; let  them  have  it.  It  is  enough — more  than  enough — for  me  to  know 
that  I have  been  remembered  in  Ireland,  and  that  still,  in  the  old  land, 
the  spirit  of  our  cause  and  the  energies  of  our  people  are  living  and 
acting.  I remain,  dear  Colonel, 

Very  truly  yours, 

J.  Boyle  O’Reilly. 

Less  than  two  months  later,  we  find  him  writing  in  this 
cheerful  strain  to  his  aunt,  in  Preston,  England  : 

“Boston  Pilot”  Office, 

Franklin  Street,  Boston,  April  5,  1870. 

My  own  dear  Aunt  : How  happy  I was  made  by  seeing  your  let- 
ter. I am  truly  glad  that  you  and  Willy  and  Uncle  are  so  well.  I 
was  thinking  of  you  when  I was  in  Liverpool.  I dared  not  go  to  Pres- 
ton. It  is  strange  how  I love  Preston— I felt  it  then,  and  I feel  it  now. 
I am  a very  fortunate  fellow  to  pull  clear  through.  X am  likely  to 


106 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


become  a prosperous  man  in  America.  I write  for  the  magazines  and 
report  for  the  Pilot,  drill  the  Irish  Legion,  make  speeches  at  public 
meetings,  lecture  for  charities,  etc.,  etc.  This  course  in  the  old  coun- 
tries would  soon  make  a fortune:  and,  after  a time,  here  it  will  have 
the  same  off ect ; but,  at  present,  all  this  must  be  done  to  establish  a 
reputation.  I just  manage  to  live  as  a gentleman.  I have  paid  my 
debts  to  the  captains  who  brought  me  here.  In  a few  years  it  will  be 
my  own  fault  if  I do  not  make  a name  worth  bearing. 

And  how  are  all  my  friends  in  Preston?  ....  I am  glad  you  liked 
Mr.  Bursley.  He  is  a noble  fellow.  He  knew  who  I was  from  the  first 

day  I went  on  the  ship Send  on  your  pictures,  Aunt,  dear,  I’m 

eager  to  see  you  all  again. 

Tell  me  all  about  the  Preston  people  whom  I knew.  I will  order 
some  cartes  to-day.  I don’t  like  the  style  of  the  present  ones — they 

will  do  for  people  I don’t  care  about I am  proud  of  Willy.  He 

will  be  a fine  fellow — a prosperous,  able  man,  I know,  whenever  I see 
him  again.  Does  Uncle  James  go  to  sea  yet?  It’s  time  he  gave  up; 
he  has  lots  of  money  made  now.  And  do  you  sit  down  quietly  and  rest 
yourself?  or  do  you  still  go  on  with  the  old,  old  toil?  Now,  Aunt,  you 
must  write  me  long,  very  long  letters.  A lady  correspondent  of  your 
ability  and  taste  is  invaluable  to  a literary  man.  Now,  don’t  laugh — 
I’m  in  earnest.  Write  often.  I’ll  send  you  some  papers.  I lecture 
to-night  in  a city  called  Quincy,  near  Boston.  I have  four  lectures  this 
week.  I inclose  a ticket  for  one.  I wish  I could  see  you  there.  Good- 
by,  dear  Aunt,  Uncle,  and  Willy.  I am,  always, 

Truly  yours, 

J.  Boyle  O’Reilly. 

As  he  had  given  sufficient  evidence  of  his  literary  skill 
and  journalistic  instincts,  his  steadfast  friends,  Mr.  Collins 
and  Dr.  Joyce,  addressed  themselves  to  the  editor  and  pro- 
prietor of  the  Boston  Pilot , an  old  established  newspaper 
devoted  to  the  interests  of  Irish -American  Catholics,  of 
whom  it  had  been  the  recognized  organ  for  more  than  thirty 
years.  Mr.  Donahoe  recognized  the  ability  of  the  young 
man  and  gave  him  a temporary  engagement  as  reporter  and 
general  writer  on  the  Pilot.  This  was  early  in  the  spring 
of  1870. 

The  moment  was  propitious,  occurring  as  it  did  at  the 
time  of  the  second  Fenian  invasion  of  Canada  under  the 
leadership  of  General  John  O’Neill.  O’Neill  had  made  a 
successful  foray  across  the  border,  near  Buffalo,  in  1866,  and 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


107 


had  everything  his  own  way  with  the  Canadian  militiamen, 
until  the  United  States  forces  under  General  Grant,  cutting 
off  his  supplies  and  reinforcements,  compelled  him  to 
retreat.  In  June,  1870,  he  made  his  second  attempt  at  the 
conquest  of  Canada  by  way  of  St.  Albans,  Yt.  O’Reilly 
went  with  the  invaders  to  the  front  as  4 ‘war  correspon- 
dent” of  the  Pilot. 

Coincidently  with,  the  date  of  his  first  bulletin  in  that 
brief  and  inglorious  campaign,  in  the  Pilot  of  May  28, 
1870,  there  appeared  a little  poem,  written  by  him  in  prison 
and  entitled  “Pondering.”  It  is  interesting  for  its  hopeful 
spirit,  if  not  for  its  poetic  worth. 

Have  I no  future  left  to  me  ? ' 

Is  there  no  struggling  ray 

From  the  sun  of  my  life  outshining 
Down  on  my  darksome  way  ? 

Will  there  no  gleam  of  sunshine 
Cast  o’er  my  path  its  light  ? 

Will  there  no  star  of  hope  arise 
Out  of  this  gloom  of  night  ? 

Have  I ’gainst  Heaven’s  warnings 
Sinfully,  madly  rushed  ? 

Else  why  were  my  heart-strings  severed  ? 

Why  was  my  love-light  crushed  ? 

Oh,  I have  hopes  and  yearnings — 

Hopes  that  I know  are  vain  ; 

And  the  knowledge  robs  Life  of  beauty, 

And  Death  of  its  only  pain. 

On  May  28,  he  wrote  his  first  dispatch  as  a special 
correspondent  from  the  “seat  of  war.”  On  the  80th  he 
telegraphed  from  St.  Albans,  Yt.  : “I  have  just  been 
arrested  by  the  United  States  marshal.  I shall  not  have  a 
hearing  until  to-morrow.” 

His  first  dispatches  and  letters  were  terse  summaries  of 
the  events  which  he  had  witnessed.  On  the  following  week 
appeared  his  full  report,  as  follows  : 

Your  reporter  left  Boston  on  Tuesday  evening,  26th  inst.,  en  route 
for  St.  Albans,  Yt.,  and  having  provided  himself  with  divers  morning 


108 


JOHN  BOYLE  07KEILLY. 


papers  had  his  imagination  inflated  to  extreme  tightness  before  his 
second  cigar  was  finished.  Each  paper  had  distinct  and  detailed 
accounts  of  thousands  of  men  and  trains  of  war  material  ; and  so  pre- 
cise were  they  in  their  statements,  that  even  the  officers  commanding 
were  named.  These  statements  were  all  false.  There  were  no  thou- 
sands of  men  moving  on  St.  Albans,  nor  on  any  other  point,  as  the 
sequel  shows.  The  best  way  to  give  a correct  idea  of  the  numbers 
of  the  Fenian  “armies,”  is  simply  to  state  what  was  seen  by  a man  who 
was  there. 

At  six  o’clock  on  the  morning  of  the  25th,  I arrived  in  St.  Albans. 
There  were  about  sixty  Fenians  on  the  train — forty  from  Boston  under 
command  of  Major  Hugh  McGuinness,  and  about  twenty  who  were 
taken  in  at  the  various  stations.  When  the  train  arrived  at  St.  Albans 
these  men  passed  quietly  through  the  town,  and  proceeded  to  the  front, 
beyond  Franklin,  which  is  seventeen  miles  beyond  St.  Albans.  Along 
the  road  between  St.  Albans  and  Franklin  were  scattered  groups  of 
men,  principally  hurrying  to  the  front,  but  some,  even  at  that  early 
stage,  turning  their  faces  and  steps  homeward,  and  excusing  their 
cowardice  by  tales  of  mismanagement  and  discontent.  However,  these 
dispirited  ones  grew  fewer  as  we  went  on,  the  hurrying  men  seeming 
to  lose  their  weariness  as  they  neared  the  front.  About  ten  o’clock  we 
arrived  in  the  village  of  Franklin,  and  found  the  solitary  street  filled 
with  wagons  and  teams  of  every  description,  and  a large  crowd  of  men, 
composed  principally  of  citizens,  attracted  by  curiosity.  For  the  first 
time,  we  saw  the  uniformed  Fenians  here  in  very  considerable  num- 
bers. The  uniform  was  a capital  one  for  service,  and,  in  mass,  most 
attractive, — a green  cavalry  jacket,  faced  with  yellow,  army  blue  pan- 
taloons, and  a blue  cap  with  green  band. 

General  O’Neill  commanded  in  person.  He  walked  up  and  down 
the  road  conversing  with  his  chief  of  staff,  Gen.  J.  J.  Donnelly, 
observing  the  occupation  of  the  men,  and  now  and  then  making  some 
remark  to  aid  a waverer  in  his  choice  of  two  rifles  with  perhaps  equally 
bright  barrels.  Gen.  O’Neill  was  dressed  in  a light  gray  suit,  and 
wore  a staff -sword  and  spurs.  His  horse,  a small  bay,  stood  by  the 
roadside,  held  by  a green-coated  orderly.  When  informed  of  the 
arrival  of  the  United  States  Marshal,  he  merely  smiled  and  continued 
his  walk.  He  said  to  your  reporter  that  he  -meant  to  fight,  and  he 
would  have  a fight.  Among  the  officers  present  was  Major  Daniel 
Murphy,  of  Bridgeport,  Conn.,  in  command  of  a very  fine  body  of  men. 
Major  Murphy  had  his  men  formed  up  on  the  road,  and  minutely 
inspected  them  to  see  if  every  man’s  equipment  was  complete.  He 
looked  a fine,  soldierly  fellow,  and  throughout  the  whole  day,  and 
since  then,  no  officer  or  man  deserves  higher  notice  than  he  for  con- 
spicuous bravery  or  clear-headed  projects,  Capt.  Wm.  Cronan,  of 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


109 


Burlington,  Vt.,  also  commanded  a splendid  company,  in  perfect  uni- 
form and  equipment.  His  men  had  asked  to  be  given  the  front  in  the 
advance  on  the  enemy,  and  their  request  was  granted.  They  were 
in  line  farther  on  the  road,  going  through  their  manual  and  platoon 
drills,  and  showing  by  their  motions  that  they  were  well  disciplined 
soldiers.  Another  company,  under  command  of  Capt.  J.  J.  Monahan, 
was  still  nearer  the  Canadian  front.  Col.  Humphrey  Sullivan,  of 
Boston ; Col.  Brown,  of  Lawrence,  Mass. ; Major  Chas.  Carlton  of  Bur- 
lington, Yt. ; Capt.  John  Fitzpatrick,  of  Bridgeport,  Conn. ; Capt.  Carey 
of  Fort  Edward,  and  many  others  were  also  present.  Of  the  above- 
named  officers  the  name  of  Capt.  John  Fitzpatrick  should  be  espe- 
cially mentioned  for  personal  bravery,  shown  in  the  course  of  the  day. 

General  O’Neill  told  your  reporter  that  he  knew  that  the  Canadians 
had  taken  up  a position,  and  were  prepared  for  him  in  force.  He  said  he 
meant  to  draw  their  fire,  and  find  their  strength  and  position  ; and  then 
he  would  know  whether  a project  he  entertained  was  feasible  or  not. 

At  eleven  o’clock,  Gen.  George  P.  Foster,  United  States  Marshal 
for  Vermont,  arrived  at  the  encampment.  The  guard  which  the 
Fenians  had  posted  had  orders  to  stop  all  carriages  and  traffic  on  the 
road  ; and  according  to  orders  the  Fenian  sentinel  told  the  marshal  to 
“halt.”  Gen.  Foster  immediately  told  Gen.  Donnelly  that  this  must 
not  continue,  as  they  were  breaking  the  laws  of  the  United  States. 
The  guard  was  accordingly  withdrawn,  and  the  teams  were  allowed  to 
pass.  General  Foster  then  formally  ordered  O’Neill  to  desist  from  his 
“unlawful  proceeding.”  The  order  was  coolly  received  by  Gen. 
O’Neill,  who  then,  in  a low  tone,  spoke  a few  words  to  Gen.  Donnelly. 
Donnelly  went  forward  and  ordered  the  men  to  “fall  in.”  In  a few 
minutes  the  entire  Fenian  force  was  in  column  of  fours,  with  fixed 
bayonets  and  shouldered  rifles,  ready  for  their  general  to  give  the 
word  “Advance  ! ” 

General  O’Neill,  putting  himself  at  the  head  of  his  troops,  addressed 
them. 

The  line  of  road  which  the  column  had  to  march  was  narrow  and 
hilly.  The  distance  to  the  line  was  about  a mile,  but  the  Canadian 
front  would  not  be  visible  until  they  had  ascended  the  last  hill,  at  the 
base  of  which  ran  a small  brook.  About  eighteen  rods  on  the  Ameri- 
can side  of  the  brook  was  a post  marking  the  boundary  line.  The 
troops  marched  steadily  and  well,  but  they  certainly  did  not  think  that 
they  would  be  engaged  as  soon  as  they  were.  Gen.  Foster,  the  United 
States  Marshal,  who  had  driven  over  the  line  and  visited  the  Canadian 
forces,  now  returned,  meeting  the  Fenians  on  their  advance.  He  told 
them  as  soon  as  they  cleared  the  hill  the  Canadians  would  fire  on  them. 
Many  teams  were  on  the  road,  but  at  this  news  they  disappeared  very 
quickly.  The  Fenians  were  in  good  spirits,  and  when  they  heard  the 


110 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


fight  was  so  near,  they  flung  down  their  knapsacks  and  took  off  their 
great  coats  to  be  ready  for  it.  Up  to  this  time  everything  was  orderly 
and  soldierly.  The  men  kept  their  places,  and  the  officers  held  them 
in  strict  command.  Col.  Brown,  who  had  no  definite  command, 
shouldered  a breech-loading  rifle,  and  went  forward  with  Cronan’s 
skirmishers.  Gen.  O’Neill  rode  at  the  head  of  the  column,  which 
presented  a fine  appearance,  with  its  steady  line  of  bayonets  and  the 
green  flag  in  the  front. 

As  soon  as  the  column  had  reached  the  brow  of  the  hill  overlooking 
the  line,  Capt.  Cronan’s  and  Capt.  Cary’s  companies  were  sent  forward 
by  the  road  as  skirmishers,  with  orders  to  deploy  when  they  had  reached 
the  base  of  the  hill  where  stood  Alvah  Richards’s  farm-house.  This 
house  is  about  fifty  rods  from  the  line.  On  the  Canadian  side  of  the 
line,  for  about  five  hundred  yards,  the  ground  is  flat,  and  then  rises 
abruptly  into  a steep,  rocky  hill,  on  which  the  Volunteers  were  strongly 
posted.  From  Richards’s  farm  on  the  west  side  of  the  road,  rose  another 
abrupt  hill  covered  with  trees.  On  this  side  O’Neill  had  determined  to 
take  position,  and,  while  his  men  were  under  cover,  draw  the  fire  of 
the  enemy,  and  find  their  exact  position.  His  object  was  to  make  a 
flank  movement  on  the  Canadian  right,  and  advance  on  Cooks  Cor- 
ners, a village  about  two  miles  to  the  west. 

Capt.  Cronan’s  company  advanced  steadily  to  Richards’s  farm,  and 
on  passing  it,  dashed  with  a cheer  along  the  road  to  the  bridge. 
When  the  first  files  had  crossed  the  line,  and  before  the  company  could 
deploy,  the  Canadians  opened  a heavy  fife  on  them.  Almost  at  the 
first  discharge,  Private  John  Rowe,  of  Burlington,  Vt.,  was  shot 
through  the  head,  and  fell  dead  in  the  center  of  the  road.  The  Fenian 
troops,  without  deploying,  returned  the  fire  for  a short  time,  and  then  fell 
back  in  rear  of  Richards’s  house,  where  General  Donnelly  commanded 
a reserve  of  about  fifty  men.  The  Canadians  then  turned  their  fire  on 
the  troops,  which  were  taking  up  positions  on  the  hill.  The  men  were 
filing  over  the  exposed  ground  between  the  road  and  the  hill,  when  the 
heaviest  firing  of  the  day  was  opened  on  them.  Francis  Carraher  fell 
by  the  roadside,  shot  through  the  groin,  and,  in  an  instant  after,  Lieu- 
tenant Edward  Hope  went  down  in  the  field,  and  Mr.  O’Brien  fell  dead, 
with  a Canadian  bullet  through  his  heart.  When  the  troops  gained  the 
hill,  they  got  the  order  to  advance  to  the  front  and  open  fire.  They  ad- 
vanced, but  before  they  had  reached  the  position  which  General  O’Neill 
wished  them  to  occupy,  they  fell  back  again  under  the  close,  steady  fire 
of  the  Canadians.  The  Fenians  also  kept  up  a steady  fire,  but  all  the 
energies  of  their  officers  could  not  get  them  to  advance.  Major  Mur- 
phy, Col.  Sullivan,  and  Capt.  Fitzpatrick  did  all  that  brave  men  could 
do  to  inspire  the  men  with  confidence.  It  was  evident  then  that  the 
troops  were  too  few  to  achieve  anything.  The  men  felt  that  they  had 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES.  Ill 

no  support  to  fall  back  upon,  and  that  even  if  they  drove  the  Canadians 
back,  they  were  too  weak  to  hold  a position  against  any  considerable 
force.  Gen.  O’Neill,  who  had  been  in  their  front  under  the  hottest  fire, 
cheering  and  rallying  the  men,  then  formed  them  up  under  cover  and 
addressed  them. 

After  some  ineffective  attempts  by  the  officers  to  rally  the  men  and 
lead  them  to  the  position  on  the  hill  which  O’Neill  wanted,  the  men 
fell  back  in  rear  of  the  hill. 

This  was  virtually  the  end  of  the  fighting.  The  Canadians  still  kept 
up  a close  fire  on  the  hill,  and  the  road  leading  to  Alvah  Richards’s 
house,  where  they  knew  that  General  Donnelly,  with  the  reserve,  was 
posted.  The  bullets  of  the  volunteers  swept  every  approach  to  the 
house,  and  Donnelly  determined  to  hold  it  until  night,  and  then 
evacuate. 

The  news  of  Gen.  O’Neill’s  arrest*  was  a crushing  blow  to  Gen. 
Donnelly  and  Col.  Brown.  Donnelly  was  so  much  affected  that  he 
walked  away  from  his  men  some  fifty  yards,  and  bowing  his  face  in 
his  hands  cried  bitterly  for  several  minutes.  He  returned  to  his  men, 
calm  and  collected,  and  told  them  he  would  hold  the  place  until  night. 

At  about  half-past  three,  a flag  of  truce  was  observed  coming  from 
the  Canadian  lines,  and  Gen.  Donnelly  ordered  his  men  at  once  to 
cease  firing.  The  volunteers  who  carried  the  flag  came  down  to  the 
line,  and  General  Donnelly  went  to  meet  them.  At  first  they  asked 
Donnelly  if  he  did  not  want  to  take  away  the  body  of  Rowe,  which  lay 
in  the  center  of  the  road  about  ten  rods  on  the  Canadian  side  of  the 
line.  They  proposed  some  conditions  to  Gen.  Donnelly,  which  your 
reporter,  who  accompanied  him,  could  not  hear.  Gen.  Donnelly  drew 
himself  up,  proudly,  and  said:  “Sir,  go  back  and  say  that  on  those 
conditions  I will  never  treat  with  you.”  He  then  turned  and  walked 
back  to  the  farm-house,  and  the  Canadians  returned  to  their  lines,  the 
body  of  Rowe  remaining  on  the  road  where  he  had  fallen. 

The  Fenian  troops  on  the  hill,  under  command  of  Maj.  Murphy,  fell 
back  to  the  old  encampment,  where  a reinforcement  of  about  fifty  men 
had  arrived  from  New  York.  They  held  a council  of  war,  when  the 
majority  of  officers  decided  to  go  to  Malone,  N.  Y.,  but  before  doing  so 
they  would  move  to  the  assistance  of  Gen.  Donnelly. 

At  six  o’clock  the  solitary  field-piece  which  represented  the  “ parks 
of  artillery  ” of  the  Fenians,  was  brought  into  position  on  the  hill  over- 
looking Richards’s  farm.  Col.  McGuinness  of  Boston  directed  its  opera- 
tions. The  piece  was  loaded  with  round  shot,  and  three  or  four  missiles 


* O’Neill  was  arrested  by  the  United  States  Marshal  near  the  house  of  Farmer 
Richards.  He  turned  the  command  over  to  O’Reilly,  who  was  also  in  turn 
arrested.  Both  were  released  after  a brief  detention. 


112 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


were  sent  whizzing  into  the  Canadian  lines.  This  was  done  to  draw  the 
attention  of  the  volunteers  from  the  farm-house,  and  so  enable  Donnelly 
and  his  men  to  escape.  Gen.  Donnelly  immediately  took  advantage  of 
the  ruse , and  led  his  men,  by  the  left,  into  the  low  ground,  where,  after 
a short  distance,  he  would  be  under  cover.  The  Canadians,  however, 
saw  the  movement,  and  opened  a tremendous  fire  on  the  retreating  men. 
Maj.  Charles  Carleton,  of  Burlington,  a brave  and  handsome  young 
officer,  was  wounded,  a bullet  passing  through  his  leg,  but  his  men 
carried  him  off.  Another  man  was  shot  badly  in  the  foot.  When 
nearly  out  of  range,  a bullet  struck  Gen.  Donnelly  above  the  hip,  pass- 
ing into  his  body.  Some  time  afterward  two  gentlemen  who  were  re- 
turning from  the  Canadian  side  in  a carriage  brought  Gen.  Donnelly 
to  the  Franklin  House,  where  he  now  lies.  The  report  of  his  death  is 
incorrect.  A physician,  who  saw  him  on  Saturday  afternoon,  says  he 
is  progressing  favorably. 

In  the  evening  the  men  deserted  the  encampment  and  strayed  off 
toward  St.  Albans,  utterly  demoralized  and  disheartened. 

On  the  next  morning,  when  your  reporter  visited  the  encampment, 
not  a vestige  of  the  immense  quantity  of  stores  was  left — not  even  the 
empty  boxes  or  broken  cartridge  tins  remained.  All  was  gone.  Ah, 
me  ! ah,  me  ! all  was  “gobbled  up ” ! 

The  citizens  here  all  feel  for  the  poor  fellows  who  are  thus  left  des- 
titute in  their  towns.  It  is  a universal  theme  of  wonder  that  the  men 
are  so  respectful  and  well-conducted.  They  may  be  seen  in  groups  of 
from  ten  to  a hundred,  sitting  on  the  side  path  or  lying  under  the  trees  ; 
and,  if  a question  be  asked  them,  they  invariably  answer  it  cheerfully 
and  politely.  A United  States  officer  yesterday  asked  a Fenian  officer 
how  in  the  world  they  kept  their  men,  disorganized  as  they  were,  in 
such  splendid  order,  and  the  Fenian  major  only  smiled  sadly,  and 
went  over  among  his  poor  boys. 

It  is  a grand  truth,  spoken  of  here  by  every  citizen,  and  your  re- 
porter is  very  proud  to  write  it,  that  not  one  outrage,  of  any  sort  what- 
ever, has  been  committed  by  a Fenian,  either  in  St.  Albans  or  Malone. 

‘ When  the  “thousands”  of  Fenians  who  had  been  sent  to  Malone 
(by  telegraph)  had  arrived  there,  they  numbered  about  400  or  500. 
This  was  the  strength  on  the  morning  of  the  27th,  when  the  attack,  or, 
rather,  the  attempt  at  an  attack  was  made  by  the  Fenians.  For  two  days 
previously  their  camp  had  been  pitched  in  the  enemy’s  country,  but  on 
the  evening  of  the  27th,  when  “General”  Starr  took  command,  he 
wisely  recrossed  the  line  to  the  safe  side,  fearing  the  proximity  of  a 
fight,  and,  like  all  the  other  “generals,”  I suppose  not  knowing  what 
to  do  with  the  spreading  wings  of  the  army  under  his  command,  in 
case  of  a breach  of  the  peace.  Taking  a mean  from  all  the  conflicting 
accounts,  the  troops  under  his  command,  on  the  morning  of  the  27th. 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


113 


numbered  450  men.  Rumor  in  the  Fenian  camp  had  swelled  the  Cana- 
dian force  to  about  4000  men  and  three  regiments  of  cavalry.  Although 
tlie  poor  fellows  believed  this,  and  believed,  also,  that  the  Canadians 
had  artillery,  they  were  not  disheartened.  They  were  older  and  stead- 
ier soldiers  than  the  men  who  had  been  engaged  at  Richards’s  farm,  and 
they  were  eager  for  a fight  and  sanguine  of  results,  even  against  supe- 
rior numbers.  They  were  in  uniform,  and  armed  with  the  breech 
loader.  In  passing,  we  may  remark  that  this  weapon  is,  perhaps,  as 
good  a service  rifle  as  any  in  the  world,  and  the  cartridge  supplied  was 
of  the  best  material. 

About  nine  o’clock,  a.m.,  the  advance  commenced.  A strong  skir- 
mish line  was  thrown  out,  and  the  men  acted  in  a steady,  soldierly 
manner.  The  Canadian  troops  were  posted  strongly  on  elevated 
ground,  with  good  shelter,  and  their  skirmishers  well  advanced.  There 
were  fears  among  the  Fenian  ranks  of  the  much  talked  of  American 
guns,  but,  if  they  were  there,  they  were  silent.  The  skirmishers  had 
not  passed  the  line  twenty  rods  when  the  Volunteers  opened  fire, 
which  was  steadily  answered  by  the  Fenians  for  a short  time.  Their 
main  body  had  not  reached  the  line  when  the  Canadian  troops  were 
seen  advancing.  The  Fenian  skirmish  line  fell  back  in  first-rate  order. 
The  Canadians  then  fired  some  heavy  volleys,  and  made  so  rapid  an 
advance  that  it  was  thought  they  meant  to  cross  the  line.  This,  how- 
ever, they  did  not  do.  They  followed  the  retiring  Fenians  to  the  line, 
sent  some  triumphant  bullets  whizzing  after  them,  took  three  prison- 
er's, wounded  two  men  slightly,  and  fell  back,  to  indulge  in  mutual 
admiration  on  account  of  their  victory. 

Your  reporter  is  sorry  to  have  to  write  it,  but  this  is  what  the  Fenian 
officers  (not  the  men)  call  “ the  fight  at  Trout  River.” 

As  soon  as  the  direful  strife  was  over,  “ Generals  ” Starr,  O’Leary, 
and  several  other  generals  (we  use  the  word  general  as  a mean — there 
might  have  been  a colonel,  and  there  probably  was  a field-marshal) 
ordered  their  carriages,  which,  like  prudent  soldiers,  they  had  kept  in 
readiness,  in  case  of  failure,  and  left  the  men  to  look  after  themselves, 
they  starting  for  Malone.  There  they  held  a council  of  war- -a  favor- 
ite occupation  of  Fenian  officers,  it  would  seem.  A great  Bashaw  of 
their  organization,  and,  of  course,  a general,  named  Gleason,  was  here, 
holding  a court  at  the  Ferguson  House.  He  vociferously  expressed  his 
“ disgust  ” with  affairs  in  general,  and  interlarded  said  expression  with 
Munchausen  assertions  of  what  could  be  done,  were  things  after  his 
way  of  thinking,  and  especially  of  what  he  himself  could  do. 

Along  the  road  from  Malone  to  Trout  River  the  poor,  disheartened 
fellows  came  straggling.  Unlike  the  men  at  Richards’s  farm,  they  kept 
their  rifles  and  equipments,  and,  notwithstanding  the  intense  heat  of 
the  day,  great  numbers  of  them  still  carried  their  knapsacks  and  great 


114 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


coats.  When  they  gathered  in  large  groups  they  imitated  their  officers 
so  far  as  to  express  disgust  at  existing  generalities,  and  especially  were 
they  disgusted  with  the  man  of  the  Munchausen  proclivities. 

Your  reporter  drove  out  to  Trout  River,  where  the  encampment  had 
been  formed,  and  a repetition  of  the  scene  at  Hubbard’s  Corner  was 
presented — an  immense  quantity  of  military  stores,  piled  there  await- 
ing the  men  who  were  not  coming ; hundreds  of  young  men  grouped 
around  in  utter  disorder ; very  little  noise  or  bustle  for  so  large  a gath- 
ering, and  when  the  voices  of  the  men  were  heard  in  passing  through 
the  camp,  their  tenor  was  an  emphatic  and  stern  condemnation  of  their 
officers.  Many  of  the  men,  in  describing  the  events  of  the  day  to  your 
reporter,  burst  into  tears  at  what  they  termed  their  disgrace,  and  said 
that  they  only  wanted  a man  to  lead  them,  and  they  would  go  any- 
where with  him.  Judging  from  the  military  physique  of  the  greater 
number,  there  can  be  no  doubt  that,  with  qualified  officers,  these  men 
would  prove  that  they  did  not  merit  the  name  they  now  feared — cow- 
ards. The  officer  in  command,  when  Starr  and  O’Leary  went  away, 
was  Maj.  Lindsey,  but  his  men  declared  that  they  had  no  confidence 
in  his  ability  to  lead  them. 

Sitting  on  a log  by  the  roadside  we  saw  a group  of  officers,  among 
whom  were  Col.  W.  B.  Smith,  of  Buffalo,  and  Maj.  Robert  Cullen, 
both,  we  believe,  brave  and  accomplished  soldiers.  Their  faith  in  the 
success  of  the  movement  was  gone,  as  the  men  were  hopelessly  demor- 
alized; Col.  Smith  had  arrived  that  morning.  He  had  started  from 
Norfolk,  Westchester  County,  for  Trout  River,  on  Tuesday,  in  com- 
mand of  280  men  from  Buffalo,  armed  and  equipped.  His  command 
formed  an  escort  for  a train  of  130  wagons,  loaded  with  arms,  ammu- 
nition, and  provisions.  He  had  accompanied  the  wagons  to  within 
seven  miles  of  Trout  River  camp.  When  the  state  of  affairs  existing 
there  became  known  it  was  deemed  best  to  send  the  wagons  back  to  the 
places  from  which  they  came,  and  where  they  have  been  held  in  secret 
by  friends  of  the  Brotherhood.  It  was  reported  that  the  Government 
had  seized  six  of  the  wagons,  but  the  remainder  had  disappeared. 

On  the  afternoon  of  the  27th  a number  of  the  demoralized  Fenians 
were  addressed  by  Surgeon  Donnelly,  of  Pittsburgh,  Pa.  He  urged 
them  to  march  to  the  front  again,  and  by  a sudden  and  unexpected 
attack  they  might  retrieve  in  part,  at  least,  their  former  defeat.  He 
said  that  he  was  not  a soldier,  but  if  they  could  not  find  one  to  lead 
them,  he  would  lead  them  again  across  the  lines,  and  would  do  all  he 
could  to  guide  them  to  success.  About  forty  men  fell  into  rank  and 
followed  him  for  some  distance,  but,  rightly  appreciating  their  insig- 
nificance, they  melted  away  among  the  demoralized  crowd  again. 

On  the  27th,  and  following  day,  men  continued  to  arrive  in  Malone 
from  various  places.  They  met  with  a sorry  reception  from  the  mass 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


115 


of  weary  men  who  crowded  the  depot  ; but,  as  a rule,  they  expressed 
their  disbelief  in  the  statements  of  failure,  and  would  go  to  the  front 
and  see  for  themselves ; and  go  they  did,  and  came  back  sadder  and 
wiser  men. 

Immediately  after  Gen.  O’Neill’s  arrest  at  St.  Albans, 
O’Reilly  bad  attempted  to  assume  the  command  verbally 
delegated  to  him  by  the  former,  but  the  men  were  demor- 
alized, and  one  officer,  to  whom  he  had  issued  a command, 
refused  with  an  oath  to  obey.  Another,  who  had  seen  real 
lighting,  was  so  chagrined  with  the  insubordination  of  his 
comrades,  that  he  broke  his  sword,  and  so  surrendered  his 
brief  commission.  Among  the  trustworthy  friends  of 
O’Reilly  in  this  wretched  fiasco  was  Mr.  (now  Rev.)  P.  B. 
Murphy,  who  had  with  him  attended  an  enthusiastic  rally 
at  the  Sherman  House  in  Boston,  and  had  gone  forward 
full  of  bright  anticipations.  He  and  Mr.  Chas.  E.  Hurd, 
representing  the  Boston  Journal , saw  the  ignominious  end 
of  the  campaign,  and  the  arrest  of  O’Reilly  and  Maj. 
McGuinness,  both  of  whom  were  released  after  a detention 
of  a day  or  two. 

The  Fenian  leaders  had  been  egregiously  misled  by 
lofty  promises  of  support  from  various  quarters.  O’Neill 
was  undoubtedly  an  honest  man,  but  his  followers,  equally 
honest,  were  for  the  most  part  untrained  and  undisciplined 
raw  recruits ; some  were  so  unacquainted  with  warfare 
that  they  did  not  know  how  to  load  their  guns  ! They 
were  brave  enough,  unskilled  as  they  were,  to  have  over- 
come the  forces  confronting  them,  had  they  been  well 
handled  and  assured  of  reinforcement.  The  United  States 
Government  would  not  have  been  very  sorry  had  they 
been  able  to  carry  out  their  scheme  of  invasion  successfully ; 
but,  as.it  was,  it  interposed  at  the  proper  time  and  ended 
the  tragical  farce. 

O’Reilly’s  correspondence  from  Canada  was  his  first  ex- 
tended work  on  the  Pilot.  It  created  a marked  impression 
both  on  account  of  the  writer’s  revolutionary  antecedents, 
and  because  of  the  frankness  with  which  he  had  criticized 
the  whole  ill-judged  and  ill-managed  undertaking.  Still 


116 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


more  frank  and  daring  was  liis  criticism  of  some  of  his 
countrymen  in  the  matter  of  the  Orange  riots  in  New  York 
a month  later. 

On  the  12th  of  July,  the  Orangemen  of  that  city  held  a 
picnic,  and  paraded  the  streets  with  insulting  flags  and 
music,  to  which  they  added,  on  entering  the  Irish  quarter, 
delicate  shouts  of,  “ To  hell  with  the  Pope,”  “ Croppies  lie 
down,”  etc.  The  natural,  if  not  justifiable,  consequence 
ensued  ; and  some  three  or  four  men  were  killed  and 
several  others  wounded.  It  is  almost  impossible  for  an 
American  to  understand  the  bitter  anger  with  which  Irish 
Catholics  resent  these  taunts  from  the  party  of  Protestant 
ascendency,  or  the  tragic  memories  of  two  hundred  years 
of  persecution  wliicli  they  evoke.  O’Reilly  was  born  on 
the  banks  of  the  Boyne,  ill-fated  scene  of  Irish  disaster  ; he 
had  suffered  every  insult,  torture,  brutality,  that  his  ene- 
mies could  inflict,  as  punishment  for  the  crime  of  patriot- 
ism. If  any  man  would  have  been  justified  in  feeling  the 
bitterness  of  party  spirit  to  the  uttermost,  it  would  have 
been  he. 

Instead  of  extenuating  or  defending  the  action  of  those 
Irish  Catholics,  who  had  resented  the  insults  of  the  Orange- 
men, he  looked  upon  the  whole  affair  with  the  eyes  of  a 
patriot,  ashamed  of  the  disgrace  which  his  countrymen  of 
either  class  had  brought  upon  their  name.  In  the  Pilot 
of  July  23,  he  wrote  this  strong  and  scathing  rebuke : 

Events  have  at  intervals  occurred  in  the  history  of  this  country 
which  have  justly  called  up  a blush  of  shame  on  the  faces  of  patriotic 
Irishmen  ; but  we  doubt  if  they  ever  have  received  so  great  a reason 
for  deep  humiliation  as  during  the  past  week.  On  the  12th  of  July  the 
“American  Protestant  Association,” — in  other  words,  the  Orange 
Lodges  of  New  York,  had  advertised  their  intention  of  celebrating  the 
anniversai’y  of  the  Battle  of  the  Boyne.  Accordingly  on  that  morning, 
with  colors  flying  and  bands  playing,  they  paraded  to  the  number  of 
3000,  and  marched  to  the  scene  of  their  celebration,  Elm  Park.  On  the 
line  of  march  they  lost  no  opportunity  of  goading  to  intensity  the  bitter 
feelings  of  their  Catholic  fellow-countrymen  whom  they  passed.  This 
resulted  in  a general  banding  of  the  laborers  of  the  vicinity,  who  set 
upon  the  Orangemen  with  sticks  and  stones,  which  were  answered  by 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


117 


them  with  pistol  bullets.  A terrible  melee  was  the  consequence,  in 
which  four  lives  were  lost,  and  numbers  endangered. 

Is  not  this  cause  for  deep  humiliation  ? Earnest  men  have  labored 
for  years  to  remove  that  bitter  old  taunt  of  our  enemies — “ You  cannot 
unite.”  Patient  workers  have  tried  to  teach  the  world,  and  even  our- 
selves, that  this  reproach  was  not  the  truth.  This  is  the  reward  of 
their  labor.  Our  own  people,  in  a strange  land,  have  insultingly  turned 
on  their  benefactors  and  flung  their  labor  in  their  faces.  Oh,  what  a 
national  degradation  is  this  ! We  talk  of  patriotism  and  independence ! 
We  prate  and  boast  of  our  “ national  will  ” ! What  evidence  is  this  ? 
What  are  we  to-day  in  the  eyes  of  Americans  ? Aliens  from  a petty 
island  in  the  Atlantic,  boasting  of  our  patriotism  and  fraternity,  and 
showing  at  the  same  moment  the  deadly  hatred  that  rankles  against 
our  brethren  and  fellow-countrymen.  Why  must  we  carry,  wherever 
we  go,  those  accursed  and  contemptible  island  feuds  ? Shall  we  never 
be  shamed  into  the  knowledge  of  the  brazen  impudence  of  allowing  our 
national  hatreds  to  disturb  the  peace  and  the  safety  of  the  respectable 
citizens  of  this  country  ? Must  the  day  come  when  the  degrading 
truth  cannot  be  muffled  up,  that  the  murderous  animosity  of  Irish 
party  ism  has  become  a public  nuisance  in  almost  every  corner  of  the 
wrorld  ? We  cannot  dwell  on  this  subject.  We  cannot,  and  we  care 
not  to  analyze  this  mountain  of  disgrace,  to  find  out  to  which  party  the 
blame  is  attached.  Both  parties  are  to  be  blamed  and  condemned  ; for 
both  have  joined  in  making  the  name  of  Irishmen  a scoff  and  a by- 
word this  day  in  America. 

Thus,  almost  his  first  word  as  a journalist  was  one  of  re- 
buke to  the  wretched  spirit  of  faction  which  has  ever  been 
the  bane,  and  shame,  and  ruin  of  Ireland.  So  also,  the 
last  words  that  he  ever  penned  for  the  Pilot , after  twenty 
years  of  untiring  service  as  the  guide  and  friend  and  coun- 
selor of  his  people,  were  in  condemnation  of  the  foolish, 
futile,  dangerous  dissensions  among  men  who,  enlisted  in 
the  service  of  their  country,  would  forget  the  enemy  be- 
fore them,  to  turn  their  arms  against  one  another. 

A year  after  the  Orange  demonstration  of  1870,  the  same 
organization  again  paraded  in  New  York,  and  again  another 
disgraceful  riot  ensued.  In  the  Pilot  of  July  29,  1871, 
O’Reilly  wrote  these  wise  ^nd  temperate  words  concern- 
ing— “The  Orange  Parade — and  Other  Parades.” 

On  both  sides  of  the  question  there  have  been  made  about  enough 
wild  and  intemperate  assertions,  charges,  and  countercharges.  Let  us 


118 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


now  try  to  clear  away  the  vapor  from  the  subject  and  look  at  it  in  its 
nakedness,  not  through  mere  curiosity,  but  with  a view  to  the  removal 
of  the  bitter  feelings  which  are  kept  living  in  this  country  by  parades. 
We  do  not  speak  to  either  party  in  the  late  riots — we  have  neither 
Orange  subscribers  nor  rowdy  readers  : but  we  speak  to  the  great  class — 
the  Irish  in  America — who  are  made  to  bear  the  blame  and  the  shame 
of  the  disgraceful  proceedings  that  have  marked  the  12th  of  July  in 
New  York  for  two  years  past. 

After  reviewing  the  comments  of  the  press  on  the  riots 
the  article  continues  : 

But  let  us  return  to  the  main  consideration.  How  is  a recurrence 
of  this  disaster  to  be  avoided  ? Let  us  look  at  the  matter  all  round,  and 
with  coolness  ; other  people  look  at  it  so,  and  we  should  also.  It  will 
help  us  to  examine  fairly,  if  we  remember  that  a few  months  ago  we — 
the  Catholics  of  America — held  monster  meetings  of  a semi-religious 
nature,  whereat  we  protested  strongly  against  the  Italian  occupation  of 
Rome— an  usurpation  which  appears  just  in  the  eyes  of  many  of  our 
Protestant  fellow-citizens.  And  later,  on  the  16th  of  June  last,  we 
celebrated  the  twenty-fifth  anniversary  of  Pius  IX.  in  many  cities, 
with  immense  processions,  in  which  we  carried  the  Papal  colors.  We 
were  not  interfered  with  on  either  occasion.  With  this  as  a stand- 
point let  us  proceed.  Let  us,  in  the  first  place,  express  our  firm  convic- 
tion that  the  action  of  many  of  the  Irish- American  journals  is  both  in- 
considerate and  unwise.  If  the  Irish  people  will  act  judiciously  on  this 
matter,  they  will  not  widen  still  more  the  temporary  gulf  that  a few 
scheming  politicians  have  placed,  or  attempted  to  place,  between  them 
and  the  natives  of  this  country.  The  intemperate  course  of  a part  of 
the  Irish- American  press  tends  to  widen  that  gulf.  The  question  is, 
Do  we  or  do  we  not  defend  the  New  York  rioters  ? As  Irish- American 
Catholic  citizens,  we  answer,  we  condemn  the  rioters,  and  ignore  them 
both  as  Irishmen  and  Catholics.  By  making  ourselves  responsible  for 
their  acts,  which  we  do  by  a vain  attempt  to  justify  them,  we  give  the 
200  Orangemen  who  walked  in  New  York  the  satisfaction  of  knowing 
that  they  have  destroyed  all  friendly  feeling  between  Irish  Catholics 
and  native  Americans  ; in  a word,  we  play  into  their  hands,  and  give 
them  more  than  they  could  ever  have  hoped  for. 

It  may  appear  very  strange  to  some  of  us  that  all  men  do  not  see  at 
once  that  the  Orangemen  have  no  right  to  parade.  They  cannot  be 
citizens  of  this  country  so  long  as  they  remain  citizens  of  England,  to 
which  their  oath  as  Orangemen  binds  them.  But  the  Irish  people  here 
could  talk  with  more  weight  on  this  subject  if  they  could  show  that 
more  than  a tithe  of  their  own  number  evinced  such  an  interest  in  the 
welfare  of  the  Commonwealth  as  to  secure  the  power  of  a vote.  Such 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


119 


a time  as  this  is  too  serious  for  flattery.  It  may  be  outside  the  track  of 
Irish- American  journals  to  say  harsh  things  to  their  readers,  or  venture 
to  attack  old  beliefs.  But  there  are  things  to  be  said  on  this  question 
that  must  be  said  some  time  ; and  it  is  better  that  a friendly  hand  should 
pull  down  our  old  rookeries  than  that  an  enemy’s  torch  should  be  ap- 
plied to  them.  Plain  talk  is  like  spring  medicine— unpalatable,  but 
necessary. 

If  the  Orangemen  determine  to  parade,  they  have  a right  to  parade  ; 
that  is,  they  have  as  much  right  to  parade  with  orange  scarfs  and  ban- 
ners, as  a Fenian  regiment  has  with  green  scarfs  and  sunbursts. 
it  may  be  that  neither  party  has  a right  to  parade  ; that  they  have 
simply  been  tolerated  by  the  authorities.  If  it  be  found  that  such  tol- 
eration is  detrimental  to  public  security,  we  think  that  every  reflecting 
Irish-American  citizen  will  at  once  say  that  both  processions  should  be 
proscribed.  The  very  ablest  defenders  of  the  mob  say  that  they  do  not 
quarrel  with  the  Orangemen  simply  because  they  are  Protestants. 
What  do  they  quarrel  with  them  for  ? They  have  no  right  to  quarrel 
with  them  for  their  colors,  for  the  Fenian  Legion  of  St.  Patrick,  organ- 
ized with  a view  to  make  war  on  England,  flaunts  the  green  flag  of 
Ireland  in  the  faces  of  thousands  of  Englishmen  in  New  York  City. 
Really,  we  are  almost  forced  to  the  conclusion  that  the  whole  ground 
of  objection  consists  in  the  fact  that  the  Orangemen  play,  “ Croppies  Lie 
Down.”  We  admit  that  this  is,  and  should  be  considered,  an  insulting 
tune  by  the  Irish  people  ; and  we  should  deeply  regret  to  see  them  lose 
their  detestation  of  it.  But,  let  us  ask,  is  it  sufficient  cause  to  warrant 
a violation  of  the  law  and  a sacrifice  of  life  ? 

We  have  written  this  article  with  a most  oppressive  feeling  of  its 
necessity.  Thousands  of  people  who  are  too  intelligent  to  put  their 
individual  opinions  against  the  decree  of  the  State  of  New  York,  still 
allow  their  sympathy  to  run  away  with  them,  and  thus  leave  it  in  the 
power  of  their  enemies  to  say  that  they  are  in  all  things  in  unison  with 
the  New  York  mob.  This  is  a sad  mistake.  Certain  it  is  that  the 
Orange  procession  is  not  a pleasant  sight  to  any  Irish  Catholic,  how- 
ever unprejudiced  ; but  it  is  just  as  certain  that  the  Irish  Catholics  of 
this  country,  as  a body,  condemn  all  breach  of  the  law  in  attacking  an 
Orange  procession,  just  as  honestly  as  they  would  condemn  a riot  of  any 
other  criminal  nature. 

There  are  two  ways  of  getting  rid  of  this  apple  of  discord.  The  first 
is,  by  an  agreement  between  the  general  Irish  population  and  the 
Orangemen  foregoing  all  right  to  parade,  and  expressing  their  deter- 
mination never  to  hold  processions  for  Irish  political  objects  alone. 
This  we  may  rest  assured,  will  not  be  easily  agreed  to.  The  second  one 
is  the  best,  and  the  one  that  must  come  in  the  end,  when  America,  tired 
out  and  indignant  with  her  squabbling  population,  puts  her  foot  down 


120 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


with  a will  and  tells  them  all — Germans,  French,  Irish,  Orange — “You 
have  had  enough  now.  There  is  only  one  flag  to  be  raised  in  future  in 
this  country  and  that  flag  is  the  Stars  and  Stripes.” 

Such  bold  and  frank  expressions  elicited,  as  might  have 
been  expected,  comments  of  approbation  as  well  as  of  cen- 
sure. The  unpartisan  press  commended  the  honesty  and 
courage  of  the  young  journalist.  Some  of  his  countrymen 
criticized  his  sharp  rebuke  of  hot-headed  Irishmen,  who 
had  allowed  their  natural  indignation  against  the  oppres- 
sors of  their  native  country  to  make  them  forget  their  duty 
to  the  land  of  their  adoption.  To  one  such  critic  he  replied 
as  follows,  defending  the  right  of  an  honest  man  to  change 
his  opinion,  or,  as  he  expressed  it,  “It  is  better  to  be 
Eight  than  Stubborn.5’ 

On  our  third  page  will  be  found  a letter  signed  “ Corcoran,”  pur- 
porting to  be  an  expression  of  Fenian  dissatisfaction  with  our  editorial 
on  the  New  York  riot.  When  we  wrote  that  editorial  we  were  fully 
aware  that  it  would  not  be  acceptable  to  certain  people  in  the  com- 
munity. But  we  knew  that  therein  we  expressed  the  opinions  of  the 
calm,  rational,  and  respectable  Irish  Catholics  of  America.  Least  of  all 
did  we  expect  dissatisfaction  from  the  Fenians,  whose  temperate  action 
in  New  York,  during  the  excitement  immediately  preceding  the  riot, 
won  for  them  the  well-merited  praise  of  every  class  in  the  community. 

We  must,  as  a friend,  remind  the  writer  of  this  letter  that  his  asser- 
tion that  we  “sneer  at  the  Sunburst”  is  extremely  unjust — and  he 
knows  it.  Boasting  is  not  our  trade,  but  none  of  them  all  loves  the 
Sunburst  better  than  we  do.  The  writer  also  says,  “The  Pilot  has 
entirely  changed  its  tone  on  Fenianism,  and,  from  being  friendly, 
adopted  directly  the  opposite  course.” 

The  Pilot  has  done  no  such  thing.  The  Pilot  is  as  true  a friend  to 
all  organizations  aiming  at  Ireland’s  good,  now,  as  it  ever  has  been, 
and  ever  shall  be.  Still,  we  must  reserve  our  right  to  criticise  unfav- 
orably as  well  as  the  opposite.  It  is  said  that  “there  has  been  no 
change  in  the  circumstances  of  Ireland,  nor  in  the  principles  or  policy 
of  the  Fenian  Brotherhood,”  but  that  all  the  change  has  been  in  our- 
selves. This  is  incorrect.  There  has  been  a very  great  change  in  the 
circumstances  of  Ireland  since  the  Fenian  Brotherhood  was  a great 
organization,  and,  whether  in  its  policy  or  not,  there  has  been  a vast 
change  in  the  organization.  On  the  column  next  to  that  in  which  is 
“ Corcoran’s  ” letter,  is  something  that  tells  of  a change  in  Ireland,  and 
something  well  worthy  of  every  intelligent  Irishman’s  consideration. 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


121 


We  don’t  believe  in  that  ignorant  old  prejudice  that  sneers  at  every 
man  who  changes  his  opinions.  There  is  much  of  Ireland’s  bane  in  the 
habit.  The  man  who  has  the  courage  to  honestly  change  his  opinions 
is  the  best  man.  If  convinced  that  we  were  pursuing  a wrong  course, 
or  that  a better  one  was  open,  we  would  change  every  day  in  the  year. 
The  world  is  all  change.  Every  thinker  is  a changer — every  discovery 
is  a change.  Only  an  ignorant  or  thoughtless  person  can  believe 
that  a man  who  changes  is  a bad  man  ; such  a belief  would  sink  the 
world  in  stagnation  in  a day.  Our  friends  may  rest  assured  that,  with 
God’s  assistance,  we  shall  never  change  from  the  Eight  or  turn  our 
back  on  the  Truth  : but  in  all  debatable  questions  our  motto  is — “ It  is 
better  to  be  Right  than  Stubborn.” 


CHAPTER  VII. 


Civilian  Prisoners  in  Australia  Set  Free — The  Story  of  Thomas 
Hassett— O’Beilly’s  Narrative  Poems— His  Love  of  Country  and 
Denunciation  of  Sham  Patriots — Death  of  his  Father— Speech  for 
the  Press — His  Marriage,  and  Home  Life — Pilot  Burned  Out  in 
the  Great  Boston  Fire — The  Papyrus  Club  Founded. 

TIN  addition  to  his  daily  editorial  work,  O’Reilly  filled 
“L  several  engagements  to  lecture  during  this  and  subse- 
quent years.  His  first  lecture,  after  the  collapse  of  the 
Fenian  invasion  of  Canada,  was  given  in  Liberty  Hall,  New 
Bedford,  Mass.,  on  the  20th  of  June,  1870,  for  the  benefit 
of  Captain  Gifford  of  the  Gazelle.  The  Captain  and  Mr. 
Hathaway  occupied  seats  on  the  stage,  and  heard  the  story 
of  their  kindness  told  with  all  the  eloquence  of  gratitude, 
and  received  with  all  the  enthusiasm  of  an  Irish  audience. 

On  the  29th  of  October,  he  lectured  in  Boston  Music 
Hall,  for  the  benefit  of  the  Engineer  Corps  of  the  Ninth 
Regiment,  and  again,  on  December  11,  for  the  benefit  of 
St.  Stephen’s  Church,  Boston.  During  all  this  time,  amid 
professional  and  public  cares,  he  found  leisure  for  constant 
study,  for  the  rewriting  and  revising  of  some  of  his  earlier 
poems,  and  for  a ceaseless,  active  interest  in  the  fate  of  his 
fellow-prisoners.  To  the  end  of  his  life,  any  man  who  had 
worn  the  badge  of  honor  as  a penal  convict,  for  his  devotion 
to  Ireland,  held  a lien  on  the  affection  and  good  services  of 
Boyle  O’Reilly.  In  the  early  part  of  1870,  the  British 
Government  granted  conditional  pardon  to  such  political 
convicts  in  Australia  as  had  been  civilians  at  the  time  of 
their  offense.  The  act  of  clemency  carried  little  with  it,  be- 
yond the  mere  boon  of  liberty.  Their  prison  doors  were 
opened,  and  they  were  turned  loose  to  make  what  use  they 

122 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


123 


might  of  their  only  capital,  freedom.  Thanks  to  the  kind- 
ness of  Irish  residents  in  the  colony,  they  were  provided 
for,  and  aided  in  making  their  way,  some  to  their  homes  in 
Ireland,  and  others  to  the  Mecca  of  all  aspirants  for 
liberty— the  United  States. 

Eight  civilians  and  fifteen  military  prisoners  were  ex- 
empted from  the  amnesty.  One  of  these,  writing  to  the 
more  fortunate  man  who  had  amnestied  himself,  said  : “It 
is  my  birthday  as  I write  this,  and  I know  I am  turning  it 
to  the  best  account  by  writing  to  such  a dear  old  friend. 
Who  knows,  perhaps  I may  be  able  to  spend  the  next  one 
with  you  ; if  not,  then  we  will  hope  for  the  following  one. 
At  all  events,  we  must  not  despair.  I would  count  the 
time  I spend  here  as  nothing  if  I could  only  see  the  factions 
in  America  and  elsewhere  all  united  in  one  grand  organi- 
zation. This  is  a something  to  hope  for.  Let  such  a thing 
once  become  un  fait  accompli , and  then  it  is  but  a little 
more  time,  a little  more  patience,  and— what  % The  thought 
sends  a thrill  through  my  whole  frame  like  an  electric 
shock.”  “Poor  fellow!”  commented  O’Reilly,  in  the 
Pilot , “how  much  pain  is  he  not  saved  by  the  rigor  which 
excludes  news  from  the  prison.  That  sweet  old  dream  of 
unity  can  bear  him  up  under  all  clouds  of  fate,  giving  a 
young  and  talented  man,  like  the  writer  of  the  above  letter, 
patience  to  write  calmly — ‘ If  not  next  year,  perhaps  the 
following.  We  must  not  despair ! ’ To  him  who  would 
breed  dissension  among  Irishmen,  are  not  those  words  of 
this  imprisoned  man  as  terrible  as  the  ‘Mane,  Tliecel, 
Pliares  5 which  chilled  the  heart  of  the  Assyrian  ?” 

One  of  the  HougoumonV  s life  convicts,  Thomas  Hassett, 
rightly  despairing  of  amnesty,  made  his  escape  from  the  road 
party  early  in  June,  and,  like  O’Reilly,  penetrated  through 
the  bush  to  the  sea,  taking  refuge  on  board  ship  at  Bun- 
bury.  There  he  was  recaptured,  on  the  very  threshold  of 
freedom,  and  sentenced  to  three  years’  hard  labor  in  the 
chain-gang  at  Swan  River,  with  six  months’  solitary  confine- 
ment. Hassett  was  a remarkably  daring  man.  He,  with 
James  Wrenn  and  other  Fenians,  had  served  through  two 


124 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


campaigns  in  the  Papal  Brigade.  Returning  to  Ireland  he 
joined  the  Twenty-fourth  Infantry,  and  immediately  began 
organizing  a revolutionary  movement.  He  was  doing  sen- 
try duty  at  the  Royal  Hospital,  Dublin,  in  December,  1865, 
when  he  received  timely  warning  that  a guard  had  arrived 
at  the  picket  room  to  arrest  him.  O’  Reilly  tells  the  pic- 
turesque sequel  as  follows  : 

“ Private  Hassett  walked  off  his  post,  and,  shouldering 
his  rifle,  proceeded  confidently  through  the  streets  of 
Dublin,  in  which  a soldier  with  arms  is  never  questioned. 
It  was  ten  o’clock  at  night,  and  it  so  happened  that  Hassett 
knew  of  a certain  meeting  of  organizers  and  other  ‘ boys  on 
their  keepin,’  which  was  being  held  that  evening.  Thither 
he  bent  his  steps,  reached  the  house,  and,  knowing  how  it 
was  done,  gained  admission.  The  rebels  sat  in  council  up 
stairs  : faces  grew  dark,  teeth  were  set  close,  and  revolvers 
grasped  when  they  heard  the  steady  stamj)  on  the  stairs, 
and  the  ‘ground  arms,’  at  their  door.  A moment  after,  the 
door  opened  and  the  man  in  scarlet  walked  into  the  room — 
all  there  knew  him  well.  With  full  equipments,  knapsack, 
rifle,  and  bayonet,  and  sixty  rounds  of  ammunition,  Hassett 
had  deserted  from  his  post,  and  walked  straight  into  the 
ranks  of  rebellion.  He  was  quickly  divested  of  his  military 
accoutrements ; scouts  went  out  to  a neighboring  clothing 
store,  and  soon  returned  with  every  requisite  for  a full- 
fledged  ‘ civilian.’  The  red  coat  was  voted  to  the  fire,  and 
the  belt  and  arms  were  stored  away  with  a religious  hope  in 
the  coming  fight  for  an  Irish  Republic.  The  next  evening 
one  more  was  added  to  the  group  of  strangely  dressed  men 
who  smoked  and  drank  their  ‘ pots  o’  porter  ’ in  a certain 
house  in  Thomas  Street.  The  new-comer  was  closely  shaven 
and  had  the  appearance  of  a muscular  Methodist  minister. 
The  men  there  were  all  deserters,  and  the  last  arrival  was 
Hassett.  Vainly  watching  for  the  coming  fight,  the  poor 
fellows  lived  in  mysterious  misery  for  several  weeks.  It  is 
hard  to  realize  here  now  the  feeling  that  was  rife  in  Dublin 
then.  At  last  one  of  the  deserters  was  recognized  in  th« 
streets  by  the  military  informer, — Private  Foley,  of  the 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


125 


Fifth  Dragoons,— tracked  to  the  rendezvous,  surrounded  by 
the  police,  and  every  one  captured.” 

Hassett  and  his  comrades  were  not  forgotten,  as  we  shall 
see  in  relating  the  romantic  story  of  their  rescue  by  the 
American  whaling  bark  Catalpa , in  1876. 

The  partial  amnesty  was  extended  also  to  certain  Fenian 
prisoners  in  Ireland,  including  John  Flood,  Thomas  Clarke 
Luby,  John  O’Leary,  O’ Donovan  Rossa,  John  Devoy, 
O’Meagher  Condon,  and  others,  who  arrived  in  New  York 
in  January,  1871. 

During  this  year,  the  Uncle  Ned’s  Tales,  and  other  early 
poems  were  reprinted  in  the  Pilot , and  attracted  a good 
deal  of  attention  to  their  author.  There  was  an  element  of 
strength  underlying  their  occasional  crudities,  which  gave 
promise  of  something  better  in  the  young  poet.  The 
appearance  of  his  “ Amber  Whale,”  “ Dukite  Snake,”  and 
other  narrative  poems  confirmed  that  promise.  They  were 
original  in  conception  and  dramatic  in  form.  Although  he 
was  to  achieve  his  greater,  enduring  fame  in  a far  different 
field  of  poetry,  his  first  popular  success  was  made  as  a 
writer  of  narrative  verse.  The  popular  taste  is  not  to  be 
despised ; for,  undoubtedly,  the  versified  story  is  the  natu- 
ral poem — if  anything  so  artificial  in  form  as  a poem  can 
be  said  to  have  a natural  character.  The  world  loves  a 
story  ; and  it  is  the  bard’s  chronicle,  from  the  tale  of  Troy 
Town,  down  to  the  latest  ballad,  that  is  committed  to  mem- 
ory when  loftier  and  more  elevated  flights  of  the  Muse  are 
admired  and  forgotten.  In  this  respect  the  world  of  twenty 
years  ago  was  very  like  the  world  of  two  thousand  years  ago. 
It  craved  for  something  new,  and  the  demand  created  a sup- 
ply of  brilliant  young  writers,  who  brought  novel  wares  to 
the  literary  market.  Bret  Harte  and  Joaquin  Miller  came 
from  California  with  widely  differing,  but  equally  striking, 
lyrics  of  wild  life.  John  Hay  and  Will  Carleton  struck 
other  notes  of  the  people’s  heart.  There  was  a renaissance 
of  natural  poetry. 

O’  Reilly,  fresh  from  a newer,  stranger  land  of  songless 
birds  and  scentless  flowers,  sung  not  of  birds,  nor  of  flowers, 


1 26 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


but  of  mankind.  The  setting  of  his  stories  was  doubly 
foreign — the  social,  as  well  as  geographical  antipodes.  The 
dullest  reader  could  not  fail  to  see  that  the  story,  however 
fanciful  it  might  be,  bore  the  stamp  of  truth  to  nature,  atid 
that  the  teller  spoke  only  of  what  he  himself  had  seen,  or 
felt,  or  been.  The  “ Dukite  Snake”  might  be  as  unreal  as 
the  phoenix  ; but  the  Bush  and  its  inmates  were  taken  from 
the  life.  The  “ Amber  Whale’’  was  redolent  of  the  sea — 
nobody  but  a sailor-man  could  have  given  its  nautical  flavor 
and  technical  lore  with  such  perfect  fidelity. 

These  long  narrative  poems  were  not  distinguished  for 
analysis  or  character  study.  They  were  anything  but  sub- 
jective. They  gave  no  hint  of  the  philosophical  quality 
which  was  to  mark  his  later  verse ; but  they  were  pictur- 
esque, dramatic,  virile,  and  achieved  their  only  purpose, 
that  of  telling  a strong  story  in  direct,  forcible  fashion. 
He  had  not  as  yet  learned  the  finer  art  of  pruning  away 
extraneous  matter,  and  presenting  a powerful  tale  in  a 
terse,  concrete  form,  as  he  afterward  could  do  with  such  a 
story  as  that  of  “ Ensign  Epps.” 

The  “ Dukite  Snake ’’appeared  in  the  Christmas  supple- 
ment of  the  Boston  Journal  for  1871.  O’Reilly  wrote  but 
once  over  a pseudonym.  It  was  a short  poem  contributed, 
I think,  to  the  Boston  Traveler , and  signed  with  the  pun- 
ning name  “Boilea.u.’’ 

Shortly  after  the  publication  of  the  “ Amber  Whale” 
in  the  New  York  Tribune , the  author  received  a tempting 
offer  from  Horace  Greeley  to  join  the  staff  of  that  paper. 
The  proffered  salary  was  large  compared  with  that  which 
he  was  then  receiving ; but  it  was  met  by  a counter  offer 
from  the  proprietor  of  the  Pilot,  which  induced  him, 
wisely,  to  remain  where  he  was.  He  was  making  a repu- 
tation in  the  American  city  which  was  the  literary  center 
of  the  country.  The  circle  of  his  personal  friendship  was 
large,  and  steadily  growing.  More  than  all,  he  was  in  a 
position  to  be  of  incalculable  service  to  the  cause  of  his 
native  country  ; and  it  is  the  simplest  of  truths  to  say  that 
this  consideration  would  have  outweighed,  at  any  period  of 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


127 


his  life,  every  prospect  of  personal  gain  or  literary  honors. 
Love  of  country  was  with  him  not  merely  a strong  senti- 
ment,— it  was  the  ruling  passion,  to  which  he  would  have 
sacrificed  any  and  every  other  ambition  or  possession. 

It  was  in  this  spirit  of  absolutely  unselfish  patriotism 
that  he  sharply  arraigned  the  demagogues  and  self-seekers 
who  endeavored  to  mislead  his  countrymen  by  posing  as 
Irish- American  ‘ ‘ leaders.  ’ ’ 

“If  the  Irish  people  in  this  country,’’  he  said,  “were 
to  utter  one  prayer  with  more  devotion  than  another,  we 
think  it  should  be,  ‘ Save  us  from  our  leaders  ! ’ The 
consideration  of  the  mysterious  union  between  an  acknowl- 
edged impostor,  imbecile,  or  fire-eater,  and  the  people  who 
are  affected  by  his  words  and  acts,  is  full  of  interest  to  any 
one  who  looks  beneath  the  surface  at  men  and  things.  The 
authority  of  the  demagogue,  or,  rather,  the  toleration  with 
which  people  bear  his  noisy  assumption  of  authority, 
springs  from  some  metaphysical  mystery  far  beyond  the 
ken  of  common  mortals. 

“We  have  noticed  in  one  of  the  most  prominent  of  the 
demagogic  journals,  lately,  an  editorial  call  for  ‘ An  Irish- 
Ainerican  Party,’  for  which  the  dangerous  demagogue  says 
‘the  necessity  is  forced  upon  us.’  We  can  tell  him  that 
the  day  is  surely  coming  when  the  necessity  of  punishing 
the  author  of  such  criminal  folly  will  be  forced  upon  the 
Irish  people  of  America.  Day  after  day  we  see  sheets 
called  ‘ Irish- American  journals  ’ filled  with  such  blatant 
nonsense  or  suicidal  advice.  Thank  Heaven,  these  produc- 
tions are  not  very  numerous,  nor  do  they  compete  in  influ- 
ence with  our  respectable  Irish -American  press.  But  their 
existence  is  a sore,  which  will  spread,  as  all  sores  do,  if 
neglected.  The  Irish  people  should  keep  their  eyes  on 
these  fellows  who  sway  the  passions  of  the  most  ignorant 
portion  of  the  community.  On  every  occasion  that  arises, 
it  is  the  duty  of  Irish- American  Catholics,  in  view  of  their 
own  respectability,  to  protest  shortly  and  decisively  against 
these  would-be  ‘representative  Irish  leaders,’  or  ‘Irish’ 
newspapers.” 


128 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


It  would  be  hard  for  the  most  critical  of  native  Ameri- 
cans to  find  fault  with  the  Americanism  of  the  foregoing 
advice,  or  with  the  editoral  appeal  to  his  fellow-country- 
men, in  the  following  issue,  to  “Think  it  out” — to  reflect 
and  reason,  before  indorsing  every  well-meant,  but  ill- 
directed,  project  proposed  to  them. 

The  cause  of  Home  Rule,  then  being  discussed  in  Ire- 
land, received  his  earnest  support,  as  “ a greater  effort  for 
political  equality  than  any  that  Ireland  has  yet  seen,  not 
even  excepting  the  agitation  of  Daniel  O’Connell.”  The 
Irish  Republican  Brotherhood  and  the  Fenian  movement 
had  done  admirable  service  for  the  Irish  cause,  but  the 
Home  Rule  movement  was  distinctly  of  home  origin.  Then 
says  O’Reilly:  “Why  in  the  name  of  wonder  is  it  that 

the  Irish  in  America  who  profess  to  have  such  intense 
sympathy  with  Ireland’s  politics,  are  so  silent  or  so  ignorant 
of  this  great  but  quiet  movement?  Surely  the  people  in 
Ireland  have  greater  rights  to  decide  what  sort  of  govern- 
ment Ireland  wants  than  the  Irish  people  in  America.  Those 
who  have  left  the  motherland  may  love  her  as  well  as  those 
who  have  remained ; but  the  people  there  have  more  right 
to  choose  their  government  than  the  people  here  to  choose 
it  for  them.  There  is  a great  deal  that  wants  consideration 
in  this  question,  and  we  earnestly  advise  our  Irish- American 
journals,  politicians,  and  people  to  quietly  think  it  out  !” 

Again,  he  excoriates  the  blatant  demagogue  who  asks  for 
support  in  American  politics,  on  the  ground  that,  “ He’s  a 
friend  to  an  Irishman/ 

Of  all  the  offensive  sayings  that  are  habitually  uttered  in  this  coun- 
try, we  are  of  opinion  that  this  sentence  is,  or  should  be  considered,  the 
most  offensive.  And  yet  it  has  evident1  v originated  from  the  very 
people  it  should  insult.  The  Irish  people  have  introduced  it  ; they  use 
it  daily  in  their  criticisms  on  public  men  ; and  it  is  no  wonder  that  it 
should  have  become  a ‘ ‘ plank  in  the  platform  ” of  every  one  who  seeks 
for  Irish  favor.  If  the  phrase  wTere  used  in  England,  or  in  any 
country  where  men  were  debarred  from  equality,  we  should  commend 
it  as  a healthy  rallying  cry.  But  in  this  republic,  where  men,  if  they 
only  will,  can  be  “free  and  equal,”  the  word  becomes  a confession  of 
inferiority,  an  utterance  of  acknowledged  childishness  that  should  be 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


129 


resented  by  every  man  of  the  Irish  race  as  an  insult.  ‘ ‘ He’s  a friend  to 
an  Irishman ! ” The  poor,  helpless  Irishman ! The  man  who  is  not 
allowed  to  vote ; the  man  who  can’t  look  after  his  affairs ; the  man  who 
has  not  sense  to  judge  who  is  the  best  man  to  be  elected ; in  a word,  the 
poor,  blind  foreigner,  who  stands  all  alone  with  every  man’s  hand 
against  him,  is  expected  to  rally  to  this  call,  and  support  the  man  who 
is  “ a friend  to  an  Irishman ! ” What  does  it  mean,  this  worn-out  rant? 

Are  we  debarred  from  equality?  Have  we  not  got  the  ballot?  Have 
we  not  got  reason  enough  to  judge  as  American  citizens  what  American 
citizen  we  should  vote  for  ? There  are  certain  men  to  whom  this  char- 
acter is  commonly  given,  and  with  some  justice.  In  the  days  of  old 
bad  feeling,  when  we  were  not  so  strong  that  we  could  walk  entirely 
alone,  we  did  want  friends,  and  the  men  who  showed  the  brotherly  feel- 
ing then  should  not  be  forgotten  now.  But  the  idea  of  allowing  every 
new  candidate  for  office,  every  raw  youth  from  the  country,  every  cun- 
ning fellow  who  aspires  to  anything,  between  the  offices  of  President  of 
the  United  States  and  that  of  policeman,  to  bid  for  the  Irish  vote  by 
sending  it  out  in  large  letters,  “ He’s  a friend  to  an  Irishman,”  is  simply 
an  insult,  and  should  be  resented  accordingly. 

There  was  need  just  then  of  a public  censor  like  this 
young  man,  who  had  no  selfish  or  political  ends  to  gain, 
and  who  struck  boldly  and  untiringly  at  everything  openly 
or  secretly  inimical  to  the  welfare  of  his  race.  He  broke  no 
lances  against  wind- mills.  When  he  saw  an  abuse,  he 
attacked  it  with  all  his  might,  and  never  abandoned  the 
fight  until  the  abuse  was  ended.  The  ‘ ‘ comic  ’ ’ Irishman  of 
stage  and  novel  was  mercilessly  criticised  by  him,  at  the  same 
time  that  he  recognized  where  the  responsibility  primarily 
lay.  “We  do  not  dream,”  he  said,  in  speaking  of  a par- 
ticularly offensive  performance  by  a troop  of  so-called 
“ Hibernian  Minstrels,”  “that  the  people  who  have  estab- 
lished them  will  remove  them  ; these  people  are  too  igno- 
rant or  too  selfish.  But  they  depend  on  the  public, — and 
the  Irish- American  public, — for  support.  Let  us  laugh  at 
the  good-natured  attempts  of  Englishmen  or  Americans  to 
portray  Irish  humorous  character ; but  if  we  want  to  see 
the  truth,  let  us  do  it  ourselves  and  do  it  truthfully.  But 
this  copying  of  the  worst  attempts  of  people  who  do  not 
understand  the  Irish  character,  and  this  exaggeration  by 
our  own  people  of  the  most  offensive  misrepresentations  of 


130 


JOHN  BOYLE  o’R-EILLY. 


the  others,  is  unworthy  of  rational  and  respectable  beings. 
No  wonder  that  people  who  do  not  know  us,  who  only  see 
us  as  we  represent  ourselves  on  the  stage,  should  judge  us 
harshly  and  wrongly.  It  is  in  the  power  of  every  person, 
and  of  every  family,  especially  of  Irish  extraction,  to  do 
something  toward  the  removal  of  this  evil  by  refusing  sup- 
port to  these  vulgar  libel ers  of  our  national  character.” 

In  February  of  this  year  (1871),  O’  Reilly  received  the 
sad  news  of  the  death  of  his  father,  who  had  survived  his 
beloved  wife  but  two  years.  He  was  buried  beside  her 
in  Glasnevin  Cemetery,  Dublin,  the  following  inscription 
being  placed  on  his  coffin  plate  : 

WILLIAM  DAVID  O’REILLY, 

Aged  sixty-three  years. 

Died  February  17,  1871. 

DECEASED  WAS  FATHER  OF 

John  Boyle  O’Reilly, 

A good  Irish  Soldier. 

Convicted  by  English  court-martial,  and  self-amnestied 
by  escaping  from  Western  Australia  to  America. 

May  the  brave  son  live  long,  and  may  the 
remains  of  the  noble  father  rest 
in  peace  ! 

O’Reilly’s  place  was  soon  allotted  him  among  the  jour- 
nalists of  Boston.  He  appreciated  the  grave  responsibili- 
ties of  his  profession  as  few  men  have  done.  Replying  to 
a toast  for  the  Press  at  a banquet  given  to  the  Irish  Band 
which  attended  the  great  Peace  Jubilee  at  Boston,  in  July, 
1872,  he  said : 

To  me,  at  times,  the  daily  newspaper  has  an  interest  almost  pathetic. 
Very  often  we  read  the  biography  of  a man  who  was  born,  lived, 
worked,  and  died,  and  we  put  the  book  on  our  shelves  out  of  respect 
for  his  memory.  But  the  newspaper  is  a biography  of  something  greater 
than  a man.  It  is  the  biography  of  a Day.  It  is  a photograph,  of 
twenty-four  hours’  length,  of  the  mysterious  river  of  time  that  is  sweep- 
ing past  us  forever.  And  yet  we  take  our  year’s  newspapers,  which 
contain  more  tales  of  sorrow  and  suffering,  and  joy  and  success,  and 
ambition  and  defeat,  and  villainy  and  virtue,  than  the  greatest  book 
ever  written,  and  we  give  them  to  the  girl  to  light  the  fire.  It  is  a 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


131 


strange  fact  that  nobody  prizes  a newspaper  for  its  abstract  value  until 
it  is  about  a century  out  of  date.  It  would  seem  that  newspapers  are 
like  wine ; the  older  they  are,  the  more  valuable.  If  we  go  into  a library 
piled  with  books,  old  and  new,  we  may  find  it  hard  to  select  one  to  suit 
our  taste.  But  let  a man  lay  his  hand  on  a newspaper  of  a hundred 
years  ago,  with  its  stained  yellow  pages  and  its  old-fashioned  type,  and 
he  is  interested  at  once.  He  sits  down  and  reads  it  all  through,  adver- 
tisements and  news  and  editorials — only,  fortunately  for  the  people  of 
the  olden  times,  there  were  very  few  editorials  written  then.  And  why 
does  he  do  this  ? Because  he  recognizes  the  true  nature  of  the  news- 
paper. He  sees  in  the  yellow  paper  and  small  page  what  he  probably 
fails  to  see  in  his  splendidly  printed  daily  or  weekly  newspaper  of  to- 
day. He  realizes  as  he  reads  that  the  newspaper  is  indeed  the  truest 
biography  of  a day.  Its  paragraphs  and  articles  are  a mosaic  of  men’s 
daily  actions  ; and  his  heart  feels  the  touch  of  the  wonderful  human 
sympathy  that  makes  us  brethren  of  the  men  of  all  climes  and  all  ages. 

But  I will  not  generalize  further.  I was  led  into  this  train  of  thought 
by  a something  that  I know  will  be  interesting  to  every  man  here,  and 
to  thousands  of  those  who  are  not  here.  A short  time  ago  I held  in  my 
hand  a Boston  paper  printed  seventy-six  years  ago.  It  was  the  first 
daily  paper  ever  printed  in  Boston — please  to  remember,  the  first  daily 
paper  ever  printed  in  Boston.  It  was  called  the  Boston  Daily  Advertiser, 
a name  which  has  a highly  respectable  representative  to-day.  And 
why,  gentlemen,  did  this  old  paper  interest  me  ; and  why  do  I say  it 
will  interest  you  to  hear  of  it  ? Because  the  editor  of  this  paper,  the 
first  daily  of  Boston,  was  an  Irishman  ; and  not  only  an  Irishman  by 
birth,  but  a man  who  was  a fugitive  from  his  native  land,  because  he 
had  been  a friend  of  Napper  Tandy,  and  a United  Irishman.  This 
talented  Irish  exile,  whose  name  was  John  Burke,  had  been  expelled 
from  Trinity  College,  Dublin,  because  the  Government  found  that  he 
was  the  author  of  a series  of  articles  on  republicanism  which  had 
appeared  in  the  Dublin  Evening  Post.  Buckingham  tells  us,  in  his 
“ Reminiscences,”  that  the  paper  published  by  this  Irishman  was  one  of 
unusual  ability,  moderation  of  language,  and  broadness  of  view.  I will 
read  you  a short  extract  from  his  opening  address,  which  will  touch 
many  a heart  here  to-night,  and  which  will  show  what  sort  of  man  was 
this  John  Burke  : 

* ‘ I call  you  fellow-citizens  ! for  I,  too,  am  a citizen  of  these  States. 
From  the  moment  a stranger  puts  his  foot  on  the  soil  of  America,  his 
fetters  are  rent  to  pieces,  and  the  scales  of  servitude  which  he  had  con- 
tracted under  European  tyrannies  fall  off  ; he  becomes  a free  man  ; 
and  though  civil  regulations  may  refuse  him  the  immediate  exercise  of 
his  right,  he  is  virtually  a citizen  ; ....  he  resigns  his  prejudices  on 
the  threshold  of  the  temple  of  liberty  ; they  are  melted  down  in  the 


132 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


great  crucible  of  public  opinion.  This  I take  to  be  the  way  in  which 
all  men  are  affected  when  they  enter  these  States  ; that  I am  so  will  be 
little  doubted  when  it  is  known  how  much  I am  indebted  to  their 
liberality  ; I shall  give  better  proof  of  it  than  words  ; there  is  nothing 
that  I would  not  resign  for  your  service  but  my  gratitude  and  love  of 
liberty.” 

These  words  were  written  seventy-six  years  ago  by  an  Irishman,  and 
although  men  of  our  race,  and  of  the  religious  belief  of  our  majority,  have 
lived  down  many  prejudices  and  many  injustices  since  then,  there  still 
remains  a mountain  to  be  removed  by  us  and  our  descendants.  But 
with  the  help  of  an  enlightened  and  unprejudiced  press,  we  can  succeed 
where  our  forerunners  failed  ; and  to  the  daily  press  of  Boston — 
especially  to  that  able  paper  which  bears  the  name  of  the  first  of  the 
family — I offer  the  words  of  John  Burke,  the  first  editor  of  a daily  paper 
in  Boston. 

Such  was  O’Reilly,  the  editor,  lecturer,  and  rapidly 
growing  leader  of  the  Irish- American  people.  In  private 
life  he  was  an  earnest  student,  yet,  at  the  same  time,  one 
who  could  and  did  relax  with  boyish  abandon . His  bach- 
elor’s den  on  the  top  floor  of  a lodging-house  in  Stamford 
Street  became  the  nightly  resort  of  a group  of  young  men 
of  kindred  tastes.  Dr.  Robert  Dwyer  Joyce,  the  Irish  poet, 
was  the  oldest  member  of  the  nameless  club,  to  which  also 
gathered  Charles  E.  Hurd,  the  scholarly  journalist ; Edward 
Mitchell,  Dr.  Dennett,  and  two  or  three  other  congenial 
spirits,  to  smoke  and  read  and  discuss,  and  sometimes  dis- 
member, the  newest  works  from  their  own  and  other  pens. 
Out  of  this  informal  coterie  grew  the  almost  equally 
informal,  but  famous  literary  and  social  organization,  the 
“Papyrus  Club,”  of  which  more  anon. 

He  had  been  over  two  years  and  a half  in  Boston  when 
he  vacated  his  bachelor’s  den,  and  took  upon  himself  the 
responsibilities  of  married  life.  In  the  Pilot  of  August  24, 
1872,  appeared  the  modest  announcement:  “Married,  on 

Thursday,  August  15,  the  Feast  of  the  Assumption,  in  St. 
Mary’s  Church,  Charlestown,  by  Rev.  George  A.  Hamilton, 
Mr.  John  Boyle  O’Reilly,  of  Boston,  to  Miss  Mary  Murphy, 
of  Charlestown.”  The  romance  of  love  thus  happily  culmi- 
nating had  existed  for  over  two  years.  The  young  poet  first 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


133 


heard  of  his  future  wife  through  reading  a little  story  writ- 
ten by  her  in  Tlie  Young  Crusader , a very  successful 
juvenile  magazine  edited  by  Rev.  William  Byrne,  the  pres- 
ent Vicar-General  of  Boston.  Something  in  the  little  story 
took  his  fancy  ; he  made  inquiries  about  the  writer,  whose 
nom  de  plume  was  “ Agnes  Smiley,”  and  sought  and 
obtained  an  introduction  to  her.  A mutual  love  soon  grew 
up  between  them.  Miss  Murphy  was  born  in  Charlestown  on 
the  5th  of  May,  1850.  Her  parents  were  John  Murphy,  who 
was  born  in  County  Fermanagh,  Ireland,  in  1823,  and  died 
in  Charlestown  June  28,  1861,  and  Jane  Smiley,  born  in 
County  Donegal,  Ireland,  1830,  who  came  to  Charlestown 
in  early  life,  and  still  lives,  a widowed  mother  with  her  wid- 
owed daughter. 

O’  Reilly  and  his  bride  made  a brief  wedding  trip  through 
New  Hampshire  and  Maine,  and  on  returning  began  the 
joys  and  cares  of  domestic  life  at  their  home  on  Winthrop 
Street,  Charlestown.  There  were  born  to  them  four  daugh- 
ters : Mollie,  on  May  18,  1873  ; Eliza  Boyle,  July  25,  1874; 
Agnes  Smiley,  May  19,  1877,  and  Blanid,  June  18, 1880.  In 
naming  the  children,  the  first  was  called  after  her  mother, 
the  second  after  the  poet’s  own  mother,  the  third  by  the 
pretty  name  to  which  such  tender  associations  were  at- 
tached, and  the  fourth  after  the  heroine  of  Dr.  Joyce’s 
Irish  epic.  The  following  letter,  written  two  years  later, 
gives  a charming  picture  of  the  quiet,  happy  home  which  he 
had  made  for  himself  in  a strange  land  : 

The  “Pilot”  Editorial  Rooms, 

September  7,  1874. 

My  Dear  Aunt  Crissy: 

It  was  like  listening  to  you  and  looking  at  you,  to  read  your  kind 
letter.  It  has  made  me  so  happy  and  yet  so  sad  that  I do  not  know 
which  feeling  is  uppermost.  I know  you  were  pleased  to  see  my  poor 
book ; but  what  would  my  own  dear  patient  mother  have  felt  when  she 
saw  me  winning  praise  from  men  ? Thank  God!  I have  her  picture — 
the  girls  and  Edward  were  kind  enough  to  send  it  to  me — and  I have  it 
grandly  framed,  and  hung  in  our  parlor.  My  little  Mollie  loves  to  kiss 
it,  and  I can  only  allow  her  to  kiss  the  frame  for  fear  of  injuring  the 
picture.  Mary  loves  to  look  at  it  as  much  as  I do,  and  she  loves  you, 


134 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


dear  Aunt,  from  your  one  or  two  letters.  Please  write  her  a letter  as 
soon  as  you  can.  She  is  getting  strong  again,* from  the  birth  of  our 
second  baby — our  Eliza  Boyle  O’Reilly.  Is  it  not  strangely  touching 
to  see  this  new  generation  with  the  old  names — springing  up  in  a new 
land,  and  cherishing  as  traditions  all  that  we  knew  as  facts?  Somehow, 
I feel  as  old  as  you  and  Uncle  James.  It  seems  so  long  since  I was  a 
boy  that  I really  do  not,  cannot,  accept  young  men  or  their  ways  of 
thinking.  It  gives  me  thesincerest  pleasure  to  know  that  Uncle  James 
is  doing  so  well.  He  has  a good  book-keeper  when  he  has  you ; but  I 
am  sure  he  knows  that  God  has  blessed  him  with  that  greatest  of  all 
blessings — a good  wife.  Willy’s  good  fortune  is  as  dear  to  me  as  if  he 
were  my  own  brother.  I always  knew  he  would  be  a clever  chemist, 
and  I am  sure  he  is.  Please  God,  sometime,  when  the  Government  lets 
me,  I shall  walk  into  his  shop  and  ask  for  a bottle  of  medicine.  He 
would  never  know  the  bearded  man,  with  streaks  of  gray,  from  the 
thoughtless  boy  he  knew  long  ago.  Nobody  in  England  would  know 
me  but  you : you  could  see  the  Boyle  in  me. 

It  will  please  you,  I know,  to  know  just  how  I am  doing.  I inclose 
a lot  of  extracts  from  the  leading  papers  of  America,  which  will  show 
you  that  I do  not  lack  literary  reputation.  My  position  in  Boston — 
which  is  the  chief  city  in  this  country  for  literature  and  general  cul- 
ture— is  quite  good.  I am  chief  editor  of  the  Pilot — which  is  the  most 
influential  Catholic  paper  in  America,  probably  in  the  world.  My 
salary  is  $3,000  a year  (£2  a day);  $4,000  next  year.  Besides,  I write 
when  I please  for  the  leading  magazines  and  literary  papers— which 
also  adds  to  my  income.  Of  course,  $3,000  a year  does  not  represent  its 
equivalent  in  English  money  in  England.  Everything  is  sold  at  a 
higher  rate  here.  However,  Mary,  who  is  a wonderful  manager,  has 
saved  a few  thousand  dollars  (I  give  her  all  the  money),  and  we  are  pre- 
pared for  a rainy  day.  My  health  is  excellent.  I have  just  returned 
from  a vacation,  which  I spent  in  the  glorious  Southern  States  of  Marj^- 
land  and  Virginia.  I visited  Baltimore  and  Washington,  and  had  an 
invitation  to  stay  with  the  President  of  the  Jesuit  University,  at  George- 
town. I do  not  know  what  you  think  of  America,  Aunt,  but  it  may 
surprise  you  to  hear  that  the  cities  here  are  far  greater  and  grander  than 
those  in  the  Old  World,  always  excepting  London  for  size,  of  course. 
Washington  is  the  most  magnificent  city  I ever  saw.  But  what  do  you 
care  for  America!  Give  my  love  to  all,  and  believe  me,  dear  Aunt, 
to  be, 

Always  your  affectionate  nephew, 

John  Boyle  O’Reilly. 


The  great  fire  of  Boston,  beginning  on  Saturday  even- 
ing, November  9,  wiped  out  of  existence  the  richest  portion 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


135 


of  the  business  quarter,  destroying  eighty -five  million 
dollars’  worth  of  property.  The  large  granite  building 
owned  and  occupied  by  the  Pilot , on  Franklin  Street,  was 
entirely  consumed.  As  soon  as  possible,  new  quarters 
were  taken  on  Cornhill,  in  the  building  of  Rand  & Avery, 
which,  by  a strange  fatality,  was  also  burned  to  the  ground 
eleven  days  later.  Nothing  daunted,  the  Pilot  resumed 
business  again  at  No.  360  Washington  Street.  A little  im- 
patience was  excusable  in  it  when  called  upon  to  announce, 
early  in  the  following  June,  that  the  paper  had  been  burnt 
out  for  the  third  time  on  May  30.  “ When  a firq  comes  to 

Boston  nowadays,”  it  said,  “ it  comes  looking  round  all  the 
corners  for  its  old  friend  the  Pilot.  It  is  evident  that  the 
fire  has  a rare  appreciation  of  a good  newspaper  and  a good 

companion  to  pass  a brilliant  hour Nevertheless, 

we  do  not  want  to  appear  too  light-hearted  on  this  occa- 
sion : it  might  lead  people  to  think  that  a fire  was  not  of 
much  account  anyway.  Of  course  we  are  used  to  being 
burnt  out,  and  it  does  not  affect  us  much  after  the  first 
mouthful  of  smoke  and  cinders.  But  when  it  comes  to 
three  times  in  seven  months,  we  protest.  We  are  not  sala- 
manders ; the  oldest  phoenix  of  them  all  would  get  sick  of 
such  a gaudy  dissipation.  For  the  remainder  of  our  lives 
in  Boston  we  want  the  fire  to  let  us  severely  alone.” 
The  Pilot ’ s stock  was  totally  destroyed  in  this  last  fire, 
and  though  it  was  well  insured  the  loss  was  hard  to  bear, 
following  the  greater  preceding  calamities.  By  these  Mr. 
Donahoe  had  been  made  poorer  to  the  extent  of  $350,000,  a 
loss  which,  with  other  reverses,  ultimately  brought  on 
financial  failure.  The  friends  of  the  paper  showed  their 
timely  good  feeling  by  doing  their  utmost  for  it  in  its  hour 
of  adversity ; some  old  subscribers  paying  arrears  of  fifteen 
years  or  more,  others  subscribing  for  ten  years  in  advance, 
and  a few  requesting  to  have  their  names  put  down  as  sub- 
scribers “for  life.” 

O’Reilly’s  “Wail  of  Two  Cities”  (Chicago  and  Boston) 
appeared  in  the  number  of  the  Pilot  issued  immediately 
after  the  great  fire  of  November  9,  1872. 


136 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


The  Papyrus  Club  was  the  outcome  of  a reception  given 
by  the  newspaper  men  of  Boston  to  Henry  M.  Stanley,  the 
famous  African  explorer,  on  Saturday  afternoon,  Decem- 
ber 14,  1872.  About  thirty  of  Stanley’s  fellow- journalists 
assembled  at  the  Parker  House,  W.  B.  Smart,  President 
of  the  Boston  Press  Club,  presiding,  and  John  Boyle 
O’Reilly  delivering  the  address  of  welcome.  He  paid  a 
tribute  to  the  “ reportorial  ” profession,  and  especially  to 
the  representative  of  it,  “a  man,  a young  man,  trained 
only  as  all  present  had  been,  who  had  yet  been  able  to 
lead  an  expeditiondnto  the  heart  of  Africa,  and  succeed 
where  the  Old  World,  with  all  its  resources,  had  failed.” 
After  the  formal  reception  and  dinner,  half  a dozen  of  the 
young  newspaper  men  present  continued  the  post-prandial 
exercises  at  a then  famous  old  chop-house  known  as  “Billy 
Park’s,”  in  Central  Court,  on  Washington  Street,  in  the 
rear  of  Jordan  & Marsh’s  dry -goods  establishment.  The 
march  of  commerce  has  wiped  out  the  hostelry,  and  built 
over  the  Court,  but  it  was  on  that  night,  and  in  “.Billy 
Park’s  ” Tavern,  that  the  Papyrus  Club  was  born.  Its 
christening  did  not  take  place  until  some  weeks  later. 
The  men  who  met  that  night  at  Park’s  were  O’Reilly, 
Stanley,  Edward  King,  Charles  Eyre  Pascoe,  William  A. 
Hovey  (“Causeur”),  Francis  H.  Underwood,  first  editor 
of  the  Atlantic  Monthly , Alexander  Young,  the  historian, 
and  W.  W.  Messer,  Jr.  The  second  meeting  of  the  club 
occurred  on  the  following  Saturday  at  the  same  place.  Its 
object,  as  stated  in  the  newspaper  reports  at  the  time,  was 
that  of  “ organizing  the  leading  writers  of  the  daily,  weekly, 
and  periodical  press  of  the  city  in  a club,  for  the  purpose 
of  promoting  better  acquaintance,  one  with  another,  and 
affording  headquarters  to  which  gentlemen  of  reputation 
in  literature  and  art  may  be  invited  while  on  visits  to 
Boston.” 

At  this  meeting,  besides  those  who  had  attended  the 
first,  were  present,  Geo.  M.  Towle,  the  historian  ; N.  S. 
Dodge,  and  Benjamin  Woolf,  who  gave  the  club  its  name. 
It  was  quickly  organized,  with  N.  S.  Dodge  as  president. 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


137 


and  Charles  E.  Pascoe  as  secretary.  Its  early  history  is 
shrouded  with  some  of  the  mystery  appropriate  to  all  great 
institutions.  O’Reilly  was  one  of  the  executive  committee. 
A printed  call,  dated  February  26,  1873,  says : 

The  Papyrus  Club  having  at  its  last  meeting  effected  a complete 
organization,  it  is  very  desirable  that  at  its  next  dinner,  which  will  take 
place  at  Park’s  Hotel,  on  Saturday,  March  1,  every  person  who  has 
heretofore  been  connected  with  the  movement  to  establish  the  club 
should  be  present. 

I am  requested  by  the  president  and  members  of  the  executive  com- 
mittee to  suggest  that  the  opportunity  will  be  a favorable  one  for  pre- 
senting the  names  of  persons  who  desire  to  join  the  club,^and'that  it 
will  materially  add  to  the  pleasure  of  the  occasion,  and  afford  members 
an  opportunity  to  vote  intelligently  upon  the  admission  of  candidates, 
if  gentlemen  see  fit  to  bring  with  them,  as  their  guests,  those  whose 
names  they  intend  proposing. 

As  it  is  necessary  that  exact  information  as  to  the  number  to  be  pres- 
ent should  be  in  the  hands  of  the  caterer  for  the  evening  prior  to  Friday, 
the  28th  inst.,  you  are  requested  to  inform  Mr.  Benjamin  Woolf,  Globe 
office,  by  note  or  otherwise,  and  not  later  than  Thursday,  27th  inst., 
whether  you  intend  to  participate,  and  if  so,  whether  a guest  will 
accompany  you. 

As  the  organized  existence  of  the  club  will  in  a great  measure  date 
from  the  meeting  in  question,  it  is  hoped  that  every  member  will  make 
an  effort  to  be  present. 

Very  respectfully  yours, 

Chas.  F.  Pascoe, 

Secretary. 

Among  the  other  early  members  of  the  club  were  J. 
Cheever  Goodwin,  Nat.  Childs,  Geo.  F.  Babbitt,  Robert  G. 
Fitch,  Henry  M.  Rogers,  Edgar  Parker,  Edwin  P.  Whipple, 
Dr.  George  B.  Loring,  E.  A.  Sothern  (“Lord  Dundreary”), 
Benjamin  H.  Ticknor,  T.  B.  Ticknor,  Howard  M.  Ticknor, 
James  R.  Osgood,  George  M.  Baker,  Dr.  W.  S.  Dennett, 
William  T.  Adams  (“Oliver  Optic”),  Dr.  R.  D.  Joyce, 
Lambert  Hollis,  Dr.  F.  A.  Harris,  William  M.  Hunt,  the 
famous  artist,  and  several  other  men  distinguished  in  art 
and  literature. 

It  goes  without  saying  that  none  of  the  members  were 
blessed  with  worldly  wealth.  At  first  the  club  was  a pure 


138 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


democracy,  unfettered  by  law  or  precedent,  the  only 
authority  ever  invoked  by  the  kindly  ruler,  President 
Dodge,  consisting  in  a vague  threat  to  “name”  any  mem- 
ber whose  boisterousness  exceeded  the  bounds  of  decorum. 
The  dinner  was  simple,  consisting  of  chops,  steaks,  or 
joints,  its  austerity  being  mitigated  by  beer. 

In  due  time,  as  the  club  prospered,  an  attempt  was 
made,  which  never  wholly  succeeded,  to  introduce  evening 
costume.  The  president  had  always  appeared  thus  arrayed, 
and  it  was  voted,  by  way  of  compromise,  that  his  dignified 
44 swallow-tail ” should  be  considered  the  “club  coat.” 
At  an  early  stage  in  its  career  the  club  voted  to  increase 
its  membership  and  finances,  simultaneously,  by  admitting 
a certain  number  of  gentlemen,  not  exceeding  one  third  of 
the  whole,  as  “non-literary  members.”  There  was  a hazy 
expectation  that  wealth  would  thence  flow  into  the  coffers 
of  the  club,  which  should  be  thereby  enabled  to  build  a 
house  and  live  up  to  its  reputation.  Bonds  were  to  be 
issued,  but  those  securities  were  never  listed  on  the  Stock 
Exchange.  When  it  came  to  the  election  of  4 4 non-literary  ’ 5 
millionaires,  the  club  insisted  on  choosing  candidates  pos- 
sessed of  qualities  not  usually  concomitant  with  wealth. 
The  non-literary  members  chosen  were  4 4 good  fellows”  to 
a man : the  literary  members  were  of  the  same  character 
ipso  facto.  On  one  historic  evening  there  were  elected 
Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich,  William  Dean  Howells,  Charles 
Gaylord,  and  Dr.  George  B.  Loring.  Such  non-literary 
men  as  E.  E.  Bice,  of  “Evangeline,”  George  Boberts,  W. 
A.  Means,  F.  V.  Parker,  and  a score  of  others,  did  not 
detract  from  the  gayety  of  the  genial  Bohemian  crowd. 

There  was  something  more  than  mere  pleasure  asso- 
ciated with  those  meetings.  As  George  M.  Towle  has  well 
said  : 44  Pleasant  as  are  its  literary  features,  its  habit  of  hos- 
pitality to  prominent  strangers,  its  brilliant  ladies’  nights,  its 
occasional  music  and  fitful  eloquence,  to  me  its  most  grate- 
ful use  is  the  freedom,  the  enlivenment,  and  I may  per- 
haps even  add,  the  affectionateness  of  its  social  sphere. 
I suppose  most  of  us  feel  a kindlier  interest  in  a man  when 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


139 


we  know  he  is  a Papyrus  man.  I think  we  are  more  ready 
to  help  him  when  he  is  trouble,  to  regret  his  calamities,  to 
rejoice  in  his  good  fortune.  I think  any  Papyrus  man 
who  has  suffered  some  worldly  grief  may  come  here  to  this 
board  in  the  absolute  certainty  that  he  will  be  surrounded 
by  such  an  atmosphere  of  brotherly  sympathy  and  encour- 
agement as  will  enable  him  to  carry  away  revived  spirits 
and  renewed  hopes.  These  genial  customs,  these  monthly 
greetings,  soften  the  harshness  of  life,  encourage  the  kind- 
liness, tolerance,  and  generosity  of  feeling  which  serve  us 
in  good  and  noble  stead  in  our  daily  battles  with  the  outer 
world.” 


CHAPTER  VIII. 


His  Public  Life — Editorial  Condemnation  oT  Bigotry — He  Speaks  for 
the  Indian  and  the  Negro — “ Songs  of  the  Southern  Seas” — Death 
of  Captain  Gifford — Poem  on  the  Death  of  John  Mitchell —Contro- 
versy with  Dr.  Brownson — His  Poem  for  the  O’Connell  Centenary 
— O’Reilly  Becomes  Part  Owner  of  the  Pilot. 

EARLY  in  February,  1873,  the  Orangemen  of  Boston, 
with  the  flexible  loyalty  which  has  ever  distinguished 
the  order,  became  suddenly  and  vociferously  American, 
and  announced  their  intention  of  celebrating  Washington’s 
birthday  by  a parade.  Whether  they  paraded  or  not  is  a 
matter  only  of  small-beer  chronicles.  O’Reilly,  true  to  his 
principles  of  tolerance  and  conciliation,  wrote  : 

Last  year  the  Orange  and  Green  were  twined  on  the  Pilot  building, 
on  Franklin  Street.  Will  the  Orangemen  carry  both  colors  in  their 
precession  ? Come,  now,  that’s  the  way  to  kill  bad  feeling.  Don’t  let 
a few  sore-headed  bigots  keep  us  apart.  No  matter  if  we  do  differ  in 
religious  belief  : that  is  no  reason  why  we  should  be  enemies  and  ready 
to  fly  at  each  other’s  throat.  The  best  Irishmen  in  our  country’s 
history  were  North  of  Ireland  Protestants.  Twine  the  flags — they  are 
both  Irish.  The  Orange  is  the  oldest  national  color.  Let  us  be  sensi- 
ble, friends  on  both  sides,  and  not  carry  our  island  bickerings  into  the 
view  of  America’s  friendly  cities. 

He  was  just  as  prompt  to  condemn  the  introduction  of 
foreign  issues  into  American  politics  by  Catholics  as  by 
Protestants. 

Announcements  had  been  made  in  various  papers  that  a 
convention  of  a proposed  “Irish”  party  would  be  held  at 
Cleveland,  O.,  in  July  of  the  same  year.  Quoting  these 
announcements  O’  Reilly  commented : 

We  do  not  know  the  men  who  have  originated  the  idea,  or  those  who 
have  called  this  convention ; we  do  not  know  their  purposes,  save  what 
we  learn  from  such  notices  as  the  above.  But  we  know  that,  whoever 

140 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


141 


they  are,  they  are  men  of  worthless  account,  unknown  and  unrespected, 
and  we  have  no  fear  that  their  influence  will  corrupt  the  mass  of  our 
people.  They  belong  and  appeal  to  that  portion  of  the  Irish  in  America 
of  which  true  Ireland  has  least  reason  to  be  proud.  But  no  matter  how 
small  the  snake  that  wriggles  through  your  garden,  the  only  safe  way 
is  to  take  a switch  and  break  its  back. 

The  Irishmen  who  would  form  or  join  such  an  order  as  that  described 
above,  stand  in  the  same  relation  to  us  as  the  members  of  the  O.  A.  P. 
or  O.  U.  A.  M.,  or  any  other  order  of  Know-nothings  in  the  country; 
nay,  the  Irishman  who  would  join  such  a party  is  even  more  our  enemy 
than  they  are,  for  not  only  does  he  adopt  their  shameful  course,  but  he 
throws  the  discredit  of  his  conduct  on  the  people  to  whom  he  belongs. 

The  Irishman  who  would  proscribe  a native  American,  and  the  native 
American  who  would  proscribe  an  Irishman,  are  guilty  of  the  same 
crime  against  the  principles  of  the  Constitution.  But  the  Irishman  is 
guilty  of  more  than  the  other : when  he  joins  a secret  society  he  is  recre- 
ant to  his  religion ; when  he  joins  a proscriptive  society  he  is  recreant  to 
his  citizenship. 

5jC  4* 

All  that  was  good  and  beautiful  in  our  dear  native  island,  we  should 
cherish  forever.  We  have  her  faith  and  her  honor  to  preserve  and  to 
make  respected.  We  have  sympathy  with  her  trials  and  her  efforts  to 
be  free.  But  we  cannot,  as  honest  men,  band  together  in  American 
politics  under  the  shadow  of  an  Irish  flag. 

****** 

We  do  not  know  whether  this  Cleveland  Convention  is  designed  to 
affect  Irish  or  American  politics.  The  heads  of  it  have  taken  care  not 
to  let  us  know  anything  of  their  movements.  But  we  shall  follow  their 
track  with  a lantern  at  all  times ; and  we  advise  our  people  in  Cleve- 
land and  elsewhere  to  treat  them  as  a pack  of  miserable  Know-nothings. 

Reviewing  the  editorial  work  of  John  Boyle  O’Reilly 
during  twenty  years,  and  understanding,  as  only  newspaper 
men  can  understand,  the  difficulties  under  which  such  work 
is  performed,  especially  the  necessity  which  it  involves  of 
deciding  quickly  on  matters,  often  of  gravest  importance, 
the  unerring  instinct  with  which  O’Reilly  decided  rightly  in 
almost  every  case  is  little  short  of  marvelous.  The  editor 
of  the  ordinary  weekly  paper  is  supposed  to  have  abun- 
dance of  leisure  for  forming  and  expressing  his  opinions. 
Such  was  not  the  case  with  O’  Reilly.  He  preferred  writing 
his  articles  at  the  last  moment ; he  was  as  scrupulous  as  the 
most  enterprising  of  “ night  editors  ” in  getting  the  latest 


142 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


news,  and  in  supplying  the  final  editions  of  his  paper  with 
everything  of  importance  chronicled  up  to  the  moment  of 
going  to  press. 

Yet,  reading  through  those  editorials  of  twenty  years, 
with  the  light  of  subsequent  events  to  guide,  I am  amazed 
at  the  sure  ness  of  his  instinct,  the  accuracy  of  his  judg- 
ment, and  the  terse  vigor  of  his  pronouncements  on  every 
event  of  more  than  ephemeral  interest.  His  political  fore- 
casts were  often  as  erroneous  as  those  of  other  editorial 
prophets ; but  his  instincts  never  once  failed  on  a definite 
question  of  right  and  wrong.  There  he  was  infallible. 

When  the  treacherous  murder  of  General  Canby  by  the 
Modoc  Indians,  in  the  lava  beds  of  Oregon,  aroused  a 
clamor  for  vengeance  throughout  the  country,  he  took  the 
part  of  the  poor  savages  who  had  no  newspaper  organ  to 
advocate  their  cause,  saying  : 

We  have  too  much  and  too  old  a sympathy  with  people  badly  gov- 
erned, to  join  in  this  shameful  cry  for  Modoc  blood.  We  grant  that 
they  have  committed  murder,  and  that  they  are  unstable,  treacherous, 
and  dangerous.  Who  would  not  be  so,  with  the  robberies  and  out- 
rages of  generations  boiling  in  their  blood  ? If  they  are  ignorant  and 
debased  they  cannot  be  cured  by  corn  whisky  and  fire-arms  ; and  these 
the  only  mission-books  they  have  received  from  our  government  or  our 
settlers. 

He  was  a Democrat,  imbued  with  the  best  spirit  of  his 
party,  but  he  was  never  a blind  partisan.  On  the  negro 
question  he  stood  beside  his  friend,  Wendell  Philipps,  on 
the  platform  of  Daniel  O’Connell.  Here  is  one  of  his  early 
pleas  in  behalf  of  the  Southern  negro,  written  at  a time 
when  the  rascally  rule  of  the  carpet-baggers  in  the  South 
had  made  even  the  Republicans  in  the  North  lose  much 
of  their  sympathy  for  the  freedmen. 

. . , . The  destiny  of  the  colored  American  is  one  of  the  big  prob- 
lems to  be  worked  out  in  the  life  of  this  Republic.  The  day  is  fast  com- 
ing when  this  man’s  claim  cannot  be  answered  by  a jest  or  a sneer.  The 
colored  American  of  to-day  may  not  be  equal  to  his  position  as  an 
enfranchised  man.  He  has  still  about  him  something  of  the  easy  sub- 
mission and  confessed  inferiority  of  a race  held  long  in  ignorance  and 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


143 


bondage.  But  this  man’s  children  and  grandchildren  are  coming,  and 
they  are  receiving  the  same  education  in  the  same  schools  as  the  white 
man’s  children.  In  all  things  material  before  God  and  man,  they  will 
feel  that  they  are  the  white  man’s  equal.  They  are  growing  above  the 
prejudice,  even  before  the  prejudice  dies  : and  herein  is  the  opening  of 
the  problem.  . . . 

The  year  1873  saw  the  practical  inception  of  the  move- 
ment  for  Irish  Home  Rale.  O’  Reilly,  wise  from  experience, 
advised  the  Fenians  to  give  the  new  scheme  a fair  hearing. 
“They,”  he  said,  “had  done  their  work.  Their  move- 
ment, whatever  its  faults,  aroused  the  national  sentiment 
and  forced  the  people  into  the  study  of  their  country’s  posi- 
tion. Nobody  in  the  world  has  clearer  grounds  of  objec- 
tion to  Fenianism  than  we  have  : we  have  known  it  all 
through,  root  and  branch,  its  faults,  its  weaknesses,  and  its 
virtues  : but  we  are  not  quite  sure  that  had  it  not  been  at 
all,  there  would  be  no  such  hopeful  movement  as  there  is 
in  Ireland  to-day.” 

He,  of  all  men,  might  have  been  justified  in  declaring  war 
to  the  knife  against  the  oppressors  of  his  native  land,  but 
he  did  not  think  of  his  own  wrongs  when  the  best  interests 
of  his  country  were  to  be  considered.  He  sincerely  es- 
poused the  cause  of  Home  Rule,  and  urged  the  wisdom 
and  charity  of  forgetting  past  grievances.  “ That  measure 
once  attained,”  he  said  : “ Let  both  neighbors  combine  for 
every  neighborly  purpose,  and  pull  together,  if  need  be, 
against  the  rest  of  the  world,  as  good  neighbors  should ; 
but  let  each  give  up,  once  for  all,  the  arrogant,  mischievous 
pretension  of  lording  it  over  the  hearthstone  and  dictating 
the  domestic  economy  of  the  other.  Thus  will  be  combined 
national  freedom  with  national  strength.” 

Thenceforward,  and  to  the  end  of  his  life,  he  remained 
an  unwavering  advocate  of  the  pacific  policy,  an  unshaken 
believer  in  its  ultimate  success.  In  his  sanguine  way  he 
made,  in  1886,  one  of  the  predictions  which  failed  of  fulfill- 
ment, that  Home  Rule  would  be  achieved  in  the  year  1889. 
He  had  not  reckoned  on  the  treachery  of  Chamberlain,  and 
the  selfish  ambition  of  the  English  Unionists. 


144 


JOHN  BOYLE  o’  REILLY. 


In  March,  1873,  the  Catholic  Union  of  Boston  was 
founded,  with  Theodore  Metcalf  as  President,  and  John 
Boyle  O’Reilly  as  Recording  Secretary.  He  remained  a 
member  of  the  organization  until  his  death. 

Two  interesting  events  marked  this  year  in  the  poet’s 
life.  The  first,  a pleasant  one,  was  the  appearance  of  his 
book  of  poems,  “ Songs  of  the  Southern  Seas,”  published 
by  Roberts  Bros.,  of  Boston.  The  second,  a sad  one,  was 
the  death  of  the  man  to  whom  that  book  was  gratefully 
dedicated.  Captain  David  R.  Gifford  died  on  board  his 
ship,  off  Mahe,  Seychelle  Islands,  on  August  26,  without 
having  seen  the  tribute  paid  him  by  the  Irish  exile  whom 
he  had  befriended. 

The  ‘ ‘ Songs  ’ ’ were  favorably  received  by  American 
readers.  Most  of  them  had  appeared  in  the  weekly  or 
monthly  publications  of  the  country.  Two  had  first  seen 
the  light  in  the  Dark  Blue  Magazine , of  Oxford  Univer- 
versity,  England,  where  the  new  contributor  was  welcomed, 
until  his  political  status  became  known,  when  the  magazine, 
like  a loyal  Conservative,  declined  to  accept  further  con- 
tributions from  the  rebel  poet.  The  press  and  scholars  of 
America,  having  no  such  scruples,  took  his  work  at  its  just 
value,  and  their  verdict  was  indorsed  in  due  time  by  the 
best  critics  of  England.  The  modesty  of  the  young  poet, 
and  the  spontaneous  and  unconventional  spirit  of  his  verse, 
won  immediate  appreciation  and  praise.  Edwin  P.  Whip- 
ple, profound  scholar  and  judicious  critic,  commended  the 
“Occasional  Poems”  in  the  book  as  “very  tender,  fanci- 
ful, earnest,  individual,  and  manly,  claiming  nothing  which 
they  do  not  win  by  their  inherent  force,  grace,  melody,  and 
‘sweet  reasonableness,’  or,  it  may  be  at  times,  their  passion- 
ate unreasonableness.  Nobody  can  read  the  volume  with- 
out being  drawn  to  its  author.  He  is  so  thoroughly  honest 
and  sincere  that  he  insists  that  his  imaginations  are  but 
memories.”  The  versatility  of  his  work  invited  compari- 
sons, which  were  seldom  aught  but  favorable,  with  many 
older  and  more  distinguished  poets.  “ There  is  the  flow  of 
Scott  in  his  narrative  power,  and  the  fire  of  Macaulay  in 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


145 


his  trumpet- toned  tales  of  war,”  said  the  Chicago  Inter - 
ocean.  “The  “Dog  Guard,’  leaves  an  impression  on  the 
mind  like  Coleridge’s  ‘ Ancient  Mariner,’  ” said  the  Boston 
Advertiser.  R.  H.  Stoddart,  in  Scribner's  Monthly , 
wrote:  “William  Morris  could  have  spun  off  The  verse 
more  fluently,  and  Longfellow  could  have  imparted  to  it 
his  usual  grace  ; still,  we  are  glad  it  is  not  from  them 

but  from  Mr.  O’  Reilly  that  we  receive  it He  is  as 

good  a balladist  as  Walter  Thornbury,  who  is  the  only 
other  living  poet  who  could  have  written  4 The  Old  Dra- 
goon’s story.’  ” The  Atlantic  Monthly  commended  espe- 
cially the  discretion  with  which  inanimate  nature  is  subor- 
dinated to  human  interest  in  the  “King  of  the  Vasse”  : 
“ The  Australian  scenery,  and  air,  and  natural  life  are  every- 
where summoned  around  the  story  without  being  forced 
upon  the  reader.  Here,  for  instance,  is  a picture  at  once 
vivid  and  intelligible — which  is  not  always  the  case  with 
the  vivid  pictures  of  the  word  painters.  ....  There  are 
deep  springs  of  familiar  feeling  (as  the  mother’ s grief  for 
the  estrangement  of  her  savage- hearted  son),  also,  touched 
in  this  poem,  in  which  there  is  due  artistic  sense  and  enjoy- 
ment of  the  weirdness  of  the  motive ; and,  in  short,  we 
could  imagine  ourselves  recurring  more  than  once  to  the 
story,  and  liking  it  better  and  better.  The  ‘ Dog  Guard  ’ is 
the  next  best  story  in  the  book, — a horrible  fact  treated 
with  tragic  realism,  and  skillfully  kept  from  being  merely 
horrible.  ’ ’ 

The  “Songs  of  the  Southern  Seas”  were  subsequently 
incorporated  in  a volume,  published  in  1878  and  entitled, 
“Songs,  Legends,  and  Ballads,”  which  reached  a seventh 
edition,  and  will  have  attained  its  eighth  in  the  present 
compilation. 

It  was  dedicated  as  follows  : 

TO 

My  Dear  Wife, 

WHOSE  RARE  AND  LOVING  JUDGMENT  HAS  BEEN  A STANDARD 
I HAVE  TRIED  TO  REACH. 

I DEDICATE  THIS  BOOK. 


146 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


On  Saturday  morning,  May  16,  1874,  occurred  the  great 
flood  at  Mill  River  Valley,  Hampshire  County,  Mass., 
caused  by  the  breaking  of  a mill-dam.  Four  villages  were 
swept  away  and  nearly  two  hundred  lives  lost  in  the  ca- 
lamity. Collins  Graves,  a milkman,  mounted  his  horse  and 
spurred  through  the  villages,  warning  the  inhabitants  and 
saving  hundreds  of  lives.  O’Reilly’s  ringing  ballad,  “ The 
Ride  of  Collins  Graves,”  inspired  by  this  incident,  has 
taken  a permanent  place  in  the  literature  of  heroic  verse. 

In  the  Pilot  of  July  11,  of  the  same  year,  O’Reilly 
printed  a poem  of  about  sixty  lines,  into  which  he  had  com- 
pressed all  the  pent-up  fierce  democracy  of  his  nature.  In 
it  he  reaches  his  highest  point  of  thought,  if  not  of  expres- 
sion. It  is  the  poem,  “Bone  and  Sinew  and  Brain.”  His 
figures  are  bold  and  strikingly  original ; Manhood  is  its 
theme — Manhood,  and  its  corelative,  Womanhood — before 
which  all  else  must  give  way  in  the  battle  for  the  survival 
of  the  fittest.  Inveighing  like  a Hebrew  prophet  against 
the  effeminacy  of  the  time,  and  the  cant  of  the  ‘ ‘ march  of 
mind,” — 

Till  the  head  grows  large  and  the  vampire  face, 

Is  gorged  on  the  limbs  so  thin — 

and  still  more  fiercely  against  “ the  sterile  and  worthless 
life”  of  the  childless  woman,  he  cries  out : 

Ho,  white-maned  waves  of  the  Western  Sea 
That  ride  and  roll  to  the  strand ! 

Ho,  strong-winged  birds  never  blown  a-lee 
By  the  gales  that  sweep  toward  land ! 

Ye  are  symbols  both  of  a hope  that  saves, 

As  ye  swoop  in  your  strength  and  grace, 

As  ye  roll  to  the  land  like  the  billowed  graves 
Of  a suicidal  race. 

You  have  hoarded  your  strength  in  equal  parts ; 

For  the  men  of  the  future  reign 

Must  have  faithful  souls  and  kindly  hearts, 

And  bone  and  sinew  and  brain. 

On  the  20th  of  March,  1875,  John  Mitchell,  the  sturdy 
Irish  patriot,  breathed  his  last  atDromolane,  County  Down, 
Ireland.  O’Reilly’s  poem  on  the  dead  patriot  was  pub- 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


147 


lished  in  the  following  week.  It  contains  this  striking 
figure,  among  others  : 

Dead ! but  the  death  was  fitting : 

His  life  to  the  latest  breath, 

Was  poured  like  wax  on  the  Chart  of  Right, 

And  is  sealed  by  the  stamp  of  Death ! 

Within  twenty  days  Ireland  lost  three  of  her  most  loyal 
sons,  John  Mitchell,  John  Martin,  and  Sir  John  Gray.  Of 
them  O’Reilly  wrote : “All  three  were  Protestants:  and 
their  death  draws  attention  to  the  truth  that  no  people  in 
the  world  are  so  utterly  without  religious  bigotry  as  the 
Irish.  These  three  Protestants  were  the  most  beloved  and 
trusted  men  in  Ireland,  and  by  the  Irish  Catholics  and 
Protestants  throughout  the  world.  The  only  question  Ire- 
land asks  her  public  men  is — Are  you  true  to  my  cause  % 
England  has  tried  with  inhuman  cunning  to  put  the  wedge 
between  Protestant  and  Catholic  in  Ireland  : she  planted 
the  seeds  of  Orangeism  and  Ribbonism,  and  watched  and 
watered  them  to  make  them  grow.  But,  thank  God ! the 
weed  of  religious  hate  will  not  spread  on  Irish  soil.  It  is 
never  the  difference  of  religion  that  makes  the  bad  blood  ; 
it  is  the  taint  of  English  money  and  English  sympathy.’’ 

To  this  broad-minded  editor  nothing  was  more  odious 
than  the  narrow  bigotry  which  would  array  sect  against 
sect,  especially  when  displayed  by  Catholics.  In  this  year, 
1875,  the  Lord  Mayor  of  Dublin,  Mr.  Peter  Paul  McSwiney, 
issued  a circular  calling  for  the  formation  of  an  “ Irish 
Catholic  party,”  saying  : “To  make  a united  Ireland,  our 

motto  must  be  ‘ Faith  and  Fatherland.’  ’’  The  Irish  Catho- 
lics indignantly  repudiated  the  bigoted  appeal,  which 
O’Reilly  stigmatized  as  “Catholic  Know-nothingism.” 

He  crossed  swords  with  a foeman  more  worthy  of  his 
steel  when  Dr.  Orestes  A.  Brownson,  a convert  to  Catho- 
licity, and,  as  converts  sometimes  are,  one  rather  more 
zealous  than  discreet,  took  exception  to  the  Pilot's  honor- 
able praise  of  the  Irish  Protestants  who  had  served  their 
country  with  a loyalty  that  redeems  their  class  from  the 


148 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


disgrace  even  of  Orangeism.  O’Reilly’s  answer  to  Brown- 
son  is  eloquent  with  the  indignation  of  a man  who  had 
suffered  from  intolerance  enough  to  detest  it  in  every 
form.  He  says  : 

Dr.  Brownson — angry  Dr.  Brownson — in  reviewing  an  unfortunate 
book  by  a clever  Irishman  (Shelton  McKenzie),  steps  off  the  path  to  take  a 
howl  in  the  primeval  savagery  of  his  nature.  Of  course,  the  first  Irish 
head  he  meets — he  is  looking  for  Irish  heads — is  the  Pilot's ; after  that 
come  the  Irish  generally — and  with  the  full  force  of  his  ancient  Know- 
nothingism,  the  Doctor  “ goes  for  ” them.  He  says  : 

‘ ‘ Mr.  McKenzie  is  a man  of  considerable  literary  ability  and  reputa- 
tion, and,  though  a Protestant,  we  believe  a genuine  Irishman.  Per- 
haps, we  ought  not  to  say  though  a Protestant , for  our  poetical  friend 
of  the  Boston  Pilot — a high  authority  in  such  matters — assured  the 
public,  not  long  since,  that  the  truest  and  best  Irishmen  going  are 
Protestants.  Why,  then,  complain  of  ‘ Protestant  ascendancy,’  and 
denounce  the  Irish  parliament  of  1800,  that  sold  the  Irish  nationality 
for  British  gold,  every  member  of  which  was  a Protestant  ? Grattan, 
Flood,  Plunkett,  Curran,  and  a few  others,  were,  no  doubt,  able  and 
eloquent,  and  regarded  Ireland  as  their  country,  but  they  were  power- 
less against  the  mass  of  their  Protestant  countrymen  ; and  we  have 
never  seen,  and  never  expect  to  see,  any  good  come  to  Catholic  Ireland 
from  following  Protestant  and  infidel  leaders.  We  have  much  more 
confidence  in  the  Catholic  bishops  and  clergy  than  in  Protestant  and 
infidel  ‘ head  centers.’  We  have  no  confidence  in  those  Catholics  even 
who  sink  the  religious  in  the  national  question,  for  no  nation  can  be 
really  free  and  independent  that  is  not  Catholic. 

* * Protestant  Irishmen  are  for  us  neither  more  nor  less  than  the 
Protestants  of  any  other  nationality  ; and  Catholic  Ireland  has  suffered 
far  more  from  Protestant  Irishmen  than  from  Englishmen.  Our 
interest  is  in  Catholic  Ireland  ; and  Irish  politics,  save  so  far  as  they 
affect  the  Church, "are  no  more  to  us  than  the  politics  of  any  other  foreign 
nation.  We  have  very  little  respect  for  those  Irish  patriots  who  think 
they  can  serve  their  country  by  leaving  their  religion  in  abeyance  and 
acting  under  the  lead  of  its  enemies.  If  the  Boston  Pilot  insists  in  glory- 
ing in  ‘ our  element,  ’ let  it  visit  our  prisons,  penitentiaries,  almshouses, 
etc.  ; above  all,  let  it  look  into  the  reports  of  our  police  courts  and  mark 
the  frequency  with  which  ‘ our  element  ’ is  brought  up  for  drunken- 
ness, and  husbands  of  the  same  element  for  brutally  beating  and  kick- 
ing their  wives,  not  seldom  even  to  death.  It  may  also  count  the 
‘ street  arabs,  ’ belonging  to  the  same  ‘ element  ’ that  swarm  in  our  cities 
and  live  only  by  begging  and  stealing — chiefly  by  stealing.  There  it 
can  find  ‘ our  element,’  as  also  in  the  emigrants  from  remote  Irish  dis- 


IIIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


149 


tricts,  who  have  never  been  instructed  in  the  first  principles  of  religion 
and  morality,  and  hardly  know  how  to  bless  themselves.” 

To  this  intemperate  onslaught  O’  Reilly  replied  : 

A good  deal  of  this  is  true,  we  are  sorry  to  say  ; no  one  ever  denied 
it.  A good  deal  of  it  is  untrue  ; and  the  remainder  is  discreditable  to 
Doctor  Brownson.  First,  “our  poetical  friend  of  the  Pilot  ” never  said 
that  “ the  truest  and  best  Irishmen  going  are  Protestants  but  he  did 
say,  not  once  but  often,  and  he  says  it  again,  that  a great  many  of  the 
best  Irishmen — the  men  whose  memories  are  respected  by  their  country- 
men the  world  over,  were  Protestants.  Dr.  Brownson  knows  enough 
about  Ireland  to  pick  out  from  the  end  of  the  last  century  the  names  of 
four  Protestants  who  loved  their  country.  Perhaps  he  thinks  there 
were  no  more.  We,  being  Irish  and  knowing  something  about  the 
subject,  take  the  liberty  of  presenting  the  doctor  with  a list  of  twenty 
times  four  Protestant  Irishmen  from  the  same  period  of  Ireland’s  his- 
tory, whose  names  will  be  revered  by  millions  of  Catholics  when  Dr. 
Brownson  and  his  Review  are  forgotten  : 

Church  of  England  Protestants. —Thomas  A.  Emmet,  barrister  ; 
Arthur  O’Connor,  barrister  ; Roger  O’Connor,  barrister  ; Thomas  Rus- 
sel, John  Chambers,  Mathew  Dowling,  Edward  Hudson,  Hugh  Wilson 
William  Dowdall,  Robert  Hunter,  Matthew  Keogh,  Joseph  Holt’ 
Thomas  Corbett,  William  Corbett,  Hon.  Simon  Butler,  A.  H.  Rowan’ 
James  Napper  Tandy,  Lord  Edw.  Fitzgerald,  Henry  Sheares,  barrister  ; 
John  Sheares,  barrister;  Oliver  Bond,  Leonard  McNally,  B.  B.  Har- 
vey, barrister;  William  Weir,  John  Allen, * Thomas  Bacon,  Anthony 
Perry,  Theobald  Wolf  Tone,  Barthol  Tone,  Thomas  Wright,  Wm. 
Livingstone  Webb,  William  Hamilton,  Richard  Kernan,  James  Rey- 
nolds, M.D.,  Deane  Swift,  barrister  ; Robert  Emmet. 

Presbyterians. — William  Tennant,  M.D.,  Robert  Simms,  Samuel 
Neilson,  George  Cumming,  Rev.  Mr.  Warwick,  Joseph  Cuthbert,  Rev. 
W.  Steele  Dickson,  William  Drennan,  M.D.,  William  Orr,  Samuel 
Orr,  William  Putnam  McCabe,  Rev.  William  Porter,  Henry  Monroe, 
James  Dickey,  attorney  ; Henry  Haslett,  William  Sampson,  barrister  ; 
Henry  Joy  McCracken,  Rev.  Mr.  Barber,  William  Sinclair,  J.  Sinclair, 
Rev.  Mr.  Mahon,  James  Hope,  Robert  McGee,  M.D.,  Gilbert  Mcllvain, 
Robert  Byers,  Henry  Byers,  Rev.  Mr.  Birch,  Rev.  Mr.  Warde,  S.  Ken- 
nedy, Robert  Hunter,  Robert  Orr,  Rev.  Mr.  Smith,  Rev.  Mr.  Sinclair, 


* Here  O’Reilly  makes  a curious  lapse,  according  to  the  testimony  of  a rela- 
tive of  his  own,  and,  like  himself,  a direct  descendant  of  Patrick  Allen  ; of  whom 
the  John  Allen  above  mentioned  was  the  grandson  and  a steadfast  Catholic  ; in 
fact,  the  Colonel  Allen  of  Napoleon’s  army,  referred  to  in  Chapter  I.  of  this 
biography. 


150 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


Hugh  Grimes,  William  Kean,  Rev.  Mr.  Stevelly,  James  Burnside, 
James  Green,  Rowley  Osborne,  Mr.  Turner,  Rev.  Mr.  McNeil,  William 
Simms,  John  Rabb,  Rev.  Mr.  Simpson,  Israel  Milliken. 

It  may  interest  Dr.  Brownson  to  know  that  eighteen  of  the  above 
named  Protestants  loved  Ireland  so  well  that  they  were  hanged  for 
their  affection.  It  was  to  these  men,  when  speaking  to  Irishmen  who 
understood  him,  that  “ our  poetical  friend”  alluded. 

Shall  Irishmen  forget  these  men  because  they  were  Protestants  ? 
Dr.  Brownson  says  he  takes  no  interest  in  anything  but  Catholic  poli- 
tics and  Catholic  leaders.  In  the  name  of  God  he  is  preaching  the 
devil’s  own  doctrine — the  old  English  doctrine  of  dissension.  Are  the 
Catholic  citizens  of  this  country  to  repudiate  the  deeds  of  all  Protestant 
Americans,  and  scout  the  memory  of  the  Protestant  Washington  ? Are 
Irish  Catholics,  at  Dr.  Brownson’s  bidding,  to  forget  the  name  and  fame 
of  such  a Protestant  Irishman  as  Edmund  Burke,  who  was  addressed 
by  Pope  Pius  YI.  as  a “noble  man ’’and  a benefactor  to  the  world? 
Dr.  Brownson,  we  suppose,  would  reject  the  services  of  Warren  and 
Putnam  at  Bunker  Hill  because  they  were  Protestants  ; he  would  de- 
pose Washington,  Clay,  Henry,  and  the  others  from  their  high  place 
in  the  national  memory  ; he  would  reject  Grant,  Sherman,  and  Thomas, 
because  they  were  Protestants,  and  fling  Sheridan  after  them  because 
he  was  only  a middling  Catholic.  Dr.  Brownson  mixes  too  much  re- 
ligion in  his  politics.  His  intolerant  meddling  can  bring  nothing  but 
discredit  on  Catholicity.  He  has  made  a reputation  for  literary  pugil- 
ism by  knocking  his  own  straw  men  to  smithereens  ; but  now,  in  his 
old  age,  he  forgets  himself  and  strikes  at  living  men,  with  other  results. 
When  Dr.  Brownson  says  that  Ireland  suffered  more  from  Protestant 
Irishmen  than  from  England — he  is  doting.  Irishmen  know  better. 
They  remember  whole  centuries  of  wrong — 

“Strongbow’s  force,  and  Henry’s  wile, 

Tudor’s  wrath,  and  Stuart’s  guile, 

Iron  Stafford’s  tiger  jaws, 

And  brutal  Brunswick’s  penal  laws  ; 

Not  forgetting  Saxon  faith, 

Not  forgetting  Norman  scaith, 

Not  forgetting  William’s  word, 

Not  forgetting  Cromwell’s  sword.” 

Such  a spirit  as  that  shown  by  Dr.  Brownson  in  this  article  is  scanda- 
lous and  abominable. 

As  to  the  Irish  in  the  prisons,  and  the  Irish  children  in  the  peni- 
tentiaries, it  comes  with  a bad  grace  from  a converted  Anglo-American 
Protestant  to  cast  them  in  our  teeth.  They  were  prepared  for  prison 
and  penitentiary  by  English  law  that  enforced  generations  of  ignorance 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


151 


on  Ireland.  There  is  no  blame  attached  to  the  Irish  “street  arabs  ” 
for  their  poverty,— not  an  atom.  Nobody  but  an  exasperated  and  im- 
potent old  man  would  scoff  at  them.  God  help  them,  and  God  pity 
their  forefathers,  who  lived  under  the  penal  laws,  who  could  not  help 
leaving  after  them  a legacy  of  poverty  and  crime ! 

When  Brownson"  s Review  passed  out  of  existence  in 
the  following  October,  with  some  sharp  denunciations  of 
the  Pilot,  in  its  valedictory,  O’  Reilly,  always  generous  to 
a foernan,  wrote  : 

Farewell,  stanch  and  fearless  old  man!  You  have  done  a large 
labor,  and  have  done  it  in  full  manhood  and  good  faiths  Those  who 
objected  shall  be  the  first  to  praise.  Your  life  has  been  a success,  as 
every  life  must  be  that  follows  principle  through  light  and  darkness. 
Not  mockingly  do  we  write  these  words  of  respect,  but  with  all  sincerity, 
admiring  an  individualized,  noble  nature.  Not  in  any  belittling  spirit 
do  we  say  that  the  death  of  Brownson1  s Review  reminds  us  of  the  last 
hour  of  the  old  pagan  bard  converted  by  St.  Patrick ! 

“ I give  glory  to  God  for  our  battles  won 
By  wood  or  river,  by  bay  or  creek ; 

For  Norna  who  died ; for  my  father  Conn ; 

For  feasts  and  the  chase  on  the  mountain  bleak. 

I bewail  my  sins,  both  known  and  unknown, 

And  of  those  I have  injured  forgiveness  seek. 

The  men  that  were  wicked  to  me  and  mine 
(Not  quenching  a wrong,  nor  in  war  nor  wine) 

I forgive  and  absolve  them  all,  save  three , 

And  may  Christ  in  his  mercy  be  kind  to  me.  ” 

Nobody  could  better  appreciate  a vigorous  antagonist 
than  Dr.  Brownson  himself,  of  whom  a characteristic  anec- 
dote is  told,  during  his  early  life,  when  he  was  a Unitarian 
minister.  Being  in  a bookstore  on  a certain  occasion,  he 
had  a controversy  with  Mr.  Trask,  the  famous  anti-tobacco 
apostle.  Mr.  Brownson  became  irritated  at  some  remark  of 
Mr.  Trask,  and  promptly  knocked  him  down.  The  by-stand- 
ers  protested  earnestly,  and  Mr.  Brownson  as  promptly 
made  a humble  and  complete  apology  for  his  loss  of  self- 
control.  The  apology  was  accepted  and  the  conversation 
resumed,  but  Mr.  Trask  overdid  his  magnanimity  by  say- 
ing, once  or  twice  afterward,  “I  forgive  you.”  At  last 


152 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


Brownson  became  enraged  a second  time  and  said,  “ 1 have 
knocked  you  down  and  I have  apologized  for  it.  If  you  say 
anything  more  about  forgiving  me,  I will  knock  you  down 
again.”  Dr.  Brownson  should  not  have  been  so  severe  on 
the  Irish  people,  with  whom,  as  this  anecdote  shows,  he  had 
a very  kindred  spirit.  Another  good  anecdote  was  told  of 
him  by  the  late  Bishop  Fitzpatrick.  Brownson  had  a mar- 
velous memory,  and  a corresponding  fluency  in  presenting 
facts  with  which  his  mind  was  so  richly  stored.  Added  to 
this  was  “ a certain  dogmatic  way  of  enlightening  the  com- 
pany on  every  subject.  The  Bishop,  who  was  known  to 
have  been  fond  of  a quiet  joke,  agreed  with  the  rest  to  take 
him,  for  once,  off  his  guard.  They  decided  to  study  well 
some  subject  which  Brownson  would  be  least  apt  to  think 
of,  and  accordingly  fixed  on  Iceland.  At  the  next  gather- 
ing they  caused  the  conversation  gradually  to  slide  into  Ice- 
land, directing  it  in  a manner  to  set  forth  all  their  knowl- 
edge of  the  subject,  and  quietly  ignoring  the  doctor  as  one 
out  of  his  latitude.  The  latter,  however,  soon  broke  the 
ice,  set  them  right  on  various  points,  and  wound  up  with  an 
elaborate  array  of  facts.  He  afterward  disclosed  that  he  had 
recently  been  studying  an  extensive  work  on  the  subject, 
just  issued  ; and  the  company  despaired  ever  after  of  over- 
shadowing Brownson  on  any  subject  whatever.”  The  ven- 
erable controversialist  died  in  April,  1876,  heartily  re- 
gretted even  by  those  with  whom  he  had  broken  lances  in 
many  a sharp  encounter. 

On  the  6th  of  August,  1875,  the  centenary  of  O’ Connell’s 
birthday  was  celebrated  by  the  Irish  people  throughout  the 
world.  In  Dublin  it  was  especially  commemorated  by  the 
inauguration  of  a noble  statue  to  the  Liberator  from  the 
hand  of  the  Irish  sculptor,  John  Henry  Foley,  R.  A.  The 
celebration  in  Boston  was  a notable  event.  Wendell  Phil- 
lips was  the  orator,  and  John  Boyle  O’Reilly  the  poet. 
Fully  four  thousand  people  crowded  Music  Hall ; Patrick 
Donahoe  presided.  Governor  Gaston,  William  Lloyd  Gar- 
rison, General  Banks,  Charles  Francis  Adams,  Jr.,  and  lead- 
ing clergymen  of  all  denominations,  with  white  and  colored 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


153 


citizens,  occupied  the  platform.  Whittier,  who  could  not 
attend  in  person,  sent  a letter  in  which  he  recalled  the  fact 
that : 

“More  than  thirty  years  ago,  in  an  elaborate  and  care- 
fully prepared  paper,  I defended  him  from  the  unjust  attacks 
of  some  of  my  countrymen  ; and  I have  seen  no  reason 
since  to  retract  a word  of  the  very  high  praise  which  I then 
awarded  him. 

“He  was  a consistent  Christian  reformer.  TcTuse  his 
own  words,  ‘ He  hated  all  tyranny  and  intolerance,  social, 
political,  or  ecclesiastical.’  By  birth  and  conviction  a faith- 
ful member  of  the  ancient  Church,  he  asked  nothing  for 
Catholics  which  he  was  not  ready  to  ask  for  Protestants. 
He  was  no  reactionist.  He  believed  it  his  privilege  to  co-op- 
erate with  Divine  Providence  in  making  the  world  better 
and  happier  ; and  held  with  his  brother  religionist,  Lamar- 
tine, that  to  oppose  the  progress  of  civilization  and  human- 
ity was  to  sin  against  the  Holy  Ghost.  His  philanthropy 
was  logical,  and  therefore  universal.” 

The  oration  of  Phillips  was  worthy  of  orator  and  sub- 
ject. O'Reilly’s  poem  was  entitled  “A  Nation’s  Test.” 
Nothing  truer  has  been  said  in  panegyric  of  the  great 
Liberator  than  is  conveyed  in  these  four  lines  : 

Races  and  sects  were  to  him  a profanity  : 

Hindoo,  and  negro,  and  Celt  were  as  one  ; 

Large  as  Mankind  was  his  splendid  humanity, 

Large  in  its  record  the  work  he  has  done. 

The  poet  was  unconsciously  foreshadowing  the  world’s 
verdict  on  his  own  life.  On  October  20  of  this  year  he 
read  his  grand  poem  “Fredericksburg,”  at  the  inaugura- 
tion of  the  armory  of  the  Second  Regiment,  Illinois 
State  Guards,  Chicago,  taking  as  his  text  the  words  of 
General  Meagher — “The  Irishman  never  fights  so  well  as 
when  he  has  an  Irishman  for  his  comrade.  An  Irishman 
going  into  the  field  has  this  as  the  strongest  impulse  and 
his  richest  reward,  that  his  conduct  in  the  field  will  reflect 
honor  on  the  old  land  he  will  see  no  more.  He  therefore 
wishes  that  if  he  falls  it  will  be  into  the  arms  of  one  of  the 


154 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


same  nativity,  that  all  may  hear  that  he  died  in  a manner 
worthy  of  the  cause  in  which  he  fell,  and  of  the  country 
which  gave  him  birth.” 

O’Reilly’s  reputation  as  a poet  was  fully  established  by 
this  time.  The  Atlantic  Monthly  for  December,  1875, 
contained  his  poem  “ Macarius  the  Monk.”  Scribner' s for 
the  same  month  had  “ The  Last  of  the  Narwhale,”  a nauti- 
cal story  in  his  old  vigorous  vein. 

All  this  time,  amid  the  press  of  daily  editorial  duties, 
the  manifold  calls  of  public  life,  and  the  steady  pursuit  of 
literature,  O’Reilly  had  time  to  listen  to  any  story  of  wrong 
done  to  the  humblest  of  his  countrymen,  and  to  espouse  the 
cause  of  the  wronged  man  until  the  injustice  was  repaired. 
Was  it  a sailor  refused  enlistment  in  a government  ship 
“ because  he  was  an  Irishman,”  or  a victim,  half  of  circum- 
stances and  half  of  prejudice,  like  Thomas  Cahill,  extra- 
dited from  Ireland  on  a false  charge  of  murder  in  Massa- 
chusetts, or  a shop  boy  confronted  with  the  offensive 
shibboleth,  “No  Irish  need  apply ’’—O’Reilly  was  ever 
ready  to  take  up  as  a personal  quarrel  the  cause  of  the  in- 
jured one.  And  when  he  did  so,  the  quarrel  did  not  end 
until  the  offender  had  amply  repented.  He  literally  fol- 
lowed his  own  creed  of  the  brotherhood  of  mankind,  and 
carried  out  his  mission  of  helping  the  helpless  ones  among 
his  brothers. 

Early  in  February,  1876,  Mr.  Donahoe’s  misfortunes 
forced  him  to  suspend.  He  had  lost  a fortune  in  the  fires 
of  1872.  The  failure  of  insurance  companies  prevented  his 
partial  recovery  from  that  disaster.  He  had,  furthermore, 
indorsed  heavily  for  a friend,  who  failed  in  business,  leav- 
ing him  responsible  for  the  sum  of  $170,000.  The  paper 
was  prosperous,  but  its  gains  were  insufficient  to  meet  those 
tremendous  losses.  Property  which  he  held  had  sadly  de- 
preciated in  value,  and  business  depression  prevailed  every- 
where, until  the  shrinkage  on  his  real  estate  left  no  equity 
beyond  the  mortgage.  He  was  indebted  to  the  extent  of 
$300,000,  of  which  some  $73,000  was  due  to  poor  depositors. 
In  this  crisis  he  was  compelled  to  make  an  assignment. 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


155 


The  trustees  of  the  property  decided  that  the  Pilot  should 
be  kept  intact,  and  accordingly  disposed  of  it  by  sale  to  the 
Archbishop  of  Boston,  and  John  Boyle  O’Reilly.  In  an- 
nouncing this  transfer  the  Pilot  made  the  further  gratify- 
ing announcement: 

“ The  Most  Rev.  Archbishop  Williams  and  Mr.  O’Reilly, 
the  future  proprietors,  hope  to  be  enabled  to  prevent  this 
terrible  loss  from  falling  too  heavily  on  the  poor  people. 
With  continued  success  for  the  Pilots  the  purchasers  intend 
to  pay  the  depositors  every  dollar  on  their  books.” 

This  voluntary  obligation  was  carried  out  to  the  letter, 
the  $73,000  being  paid,  in  ten  annual  installments,  to  the 
depositors. 


CHAPTER  IX. 


The  Cruise  of  the  Catalpa— The  English  Government  Rejects  the  Peti- 
tion  of  One  Hundred  and  Forty  Members  of  Parliament  for  the 
Pardon  of  the  Soldier  Convicts — John  Devoy  and  John  Breslin 
Plan  their  Rescue— Good  Work  of  the  Clan-na-Gael — The  Dream 
of  O’Reilly  and  Hathaway  Fulfilled — The  Catalpa  Defies  a British 
Gunboat,  and  Bears  the  Men  in  Safety  to  America. 

JOHN  BOYLE  O’  REILLY  was  now  (1876),  in  his  thirty. 

second  year,  happily  blest  with  wife  and  children,  enter- 
ing on  the  sure  road  of  literary  fame  and  worldly  prosperity. 
Under  such  conditions  the  shrewd  man  becomes  conservative, 
the  selfish  man  ungrateful,  the  weak  man  cowardly.  But 
“the  wise  of  Bohemia”— thank  God — “are  never  shrewd.” 
They  do  not  become  conservative,  in  the  sense  of  abandon- 
ing the  generous  aspirations  of  their  youth.  Wiser  he 
certainly  grew  with  advancing  years  and  responsibilities. 
He  recognized,  albeit  with  sufficient  humility,  that  he 
stood  as  a representative  of  his  countrymen  in  the  eyes  of 
a friendly  but  critical  people.  He  perceived,  also,  and 
profited  by,  the  mistakes  of  his  ardent  youth. 

But  he  never  used  this  clearer  vision  to  see  the  errors  of 
another  with  unkind  eyes.  He  passed  no  harsh  judgment 
on  those  who  honestly  differed  with  him  as  to  the  best 
method  of  righting  the  wrongs  of  his  countrymen.  He 
never  faltered  in  comrade  loyalty  to  the  associates  of  his 
revolutionary  days. 

Six  of  those  fellow  rebels,  less  fortunate  than  himself, 
still  wore  the  convict’s  garb,  and  toiled  in  the  penal  gangs 
of  Western  Australia. 

Let  it  be  set  down  to  the  credit  of  the  Fenian  cause, 
especially  to  that  much  abused  body,  the  Clan-na-Gael, 
that  half  a score  of  years  of  change,  discouragement,  and 

156 


157 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 

defeat  had  not  sufficed  to  make  these  forlorn  men  forgotten 
by  their  comrades.  John  Devoy,  the  whilom  organizer  of 
treason  in  the  British  army  ; John  Breslin,  the  rescuer  of 
James  Stephens  from  Richmond  Prison,  and  several  other 
bold  spirits  on  both  sides  of  the  Atlantic,  remembered  the 
men  in  bondage,  held  clandestine  communication  with 
them,  and  patiently  awaited  the  chance  of  proving  their 
devotion  in  the  most  practical  way.  O’  Reilly  was  not  a 
member  of  the  Clan  ; but  the  Clan  trusted  him,  as  every- 
body did. 

To  him  in  due  time  came  John  Devoy  with  a scheme  so 
audacious  and  romantic  as  to  seem  wildly  impossible. 
Not  only  was  the  plan  extravagant  in  its  conception,  but 
for  its  execution  it  needed  the  confidence  and  assistance  of 
thousands  of  men  belonging  to  a race  who  are  said  to  be 
unable  to  keep  a secret,  and  incapable  of  conspiring  with- 
out betraying.  Nevertheless,  five  thousand  men  of  the  Clan- 
na-Gael  were  taken  into  the  confidence  of  the  plotters.  A 
large  amount  of  money  was  needed,  and  it  had  to  be  raised 
by  the  contributions  of  these  thousands.  The  plot  was 
known  to  them  for  more  than  a twelvemonth,  yet  never  a 
whisper  of  it  reached  any  but  friendly  ears. 

The  plan,  in  brief,  was  to  buy  a ship,  man  her  with 
hardy  fellows  who  did  not  fear  the  consequences,  and,  sail- 
ing to  Western  Australia,  rescue  the  life  prisoners  from 
their  captivity.  It  meant,  at  the  least  calculation,  an  out- 
lay of  twenty  thousand  dollars,  a voyage  of  thirty  thousand 
miles,  a forlorn  hope,  and  a possible  gibbet  at  the  end. 

O’Reilly  proposed  an  amendment  and  it  was  adopted. 
It  was  to  buy  a whaling  vessel,  and  send  her  ostensibly  on  a 
whaling  cruise,  thus  averting  the  suspicion  which  would  be 
sure  to  attach  to  a ship  of  any  other  description  cruising  in 
Western  Australian  waters.  There  was  one  man  in  all  the 
world  best  fitted  to  give  counsel  and  aid  in  such  an  enter- 
prise, O’Reilly’s  old-time  benefactor  and  friend,  Captain 
Henry  C.  Hathaway,  of  New  Bedford,  Mass.  He  had  retired 
from  the  perilous  adventures  of  his  youth,  and,  giving 
hostages  to  Fortune,  had  begun  to  receive  the  favors  of 


158 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


Fortune  in  return  ; only  his  loyalty  and  courage  had  not 
changed  with  years.  He  entered  into  the  plan  with  zeal, 
bringing  to  the  council  the  best  attributes  of  an  American 
sailor,  a warm  heart  and  a cool  head. 

In  the  Pilot  of  May  27,  1876,  appeared  an  editorial 
entitled,  “ Who  are  the  Irish  Political  Prisoners?”  It 
answered  that,  “ There  are  seventeen  Irishmen  still  in  prison 
for  the  attempted  revolution  of ’66  and ’67.  The  leaders 
and  organizers  of  that  movement  have  been  long  at  liberty, 
pardoned  by  the  British  Government.  The  men  still  con- 
fined were  not  leaders  in  the  revolutionary  movement,  and 
the  cruelty  of  their  imprisonment  was  all  the  more  inhuman 
when  their  subordinate  position  was  considered.  Thirteen 
of  the  seventeen  prisoners  were  soldiers  in  the  English  army, 
and  in  a few  months  these  men  will  have  completed  their 
tenth  year  in  prison.  The  other  four,  Michael  Davit t, 
John  Wilson,  Edward  O’ Meagher  Condon,  and  Patrick 
Meledy,  were  civilians. 

“Of  the  thirteen  soldiers,  ten  were  privates,  one  a 
corporal,  and  two  color-sergeants.  Five  or  six  other  sol- 
diers were  condemned  but  are  now  free — some  by  pardon, 
one  by  escape  from  Western  Australia,  and  one  by  the 
hand  of  the  great  emancipator  Death.”  The  article  goes 
on  to  say  that  among  these  soldiers  were  four  especially 
distinguished,  Color- Sergeant  Charles  Heapy  McCarthy,  a 
brave  soldier  who  had  served  for  thirteen  years,  and  wore 
two  medals  for  bravery  in  the  Indian  mutiny  ; Color- Ser- 
geant Darragli,  who  was  on  the  rolls  for  a commission  for 
brave  service  during  the  Chinese  war,  and  was  a Protestant 
and  an  Orangeman  ; Corporal  Thomas  Chambers,  confined 
in  England,  and  Private  James  Wilson,  in  Western  Austra- 
lia, intellectually  the  best  men  of  the  military  prison- 
ers. Patrick  Keating,  of  the  Fifth  Dragoons,  had  died  in 
Western  Australia. 

One  hundred  and  forty  members  of  Parliament,  includ- 
ing Mr.  Bright,  Mr.  Plimsoll,  Mr.  Mundella,  Mr.  Fawcett, 
and  many  others  of  the  ablest  men  of  the  House,  presented 
a petition  for  the  pardon  of  these  men  on  the  occasion  of 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES.  159 

the  Queen’s  accession  to  the  title  of  Empress  of  India.  It 
was  rejected. 

The  next  news  of  the  unpardoned  prisoners  was  con- 
tained in  a cable  message  from  London,  dated  June  6,  1876. 
“ A dispatch  from  Melbourne,  Australia,  states  that  all 
the  political  prisoners  confined  in  Western  Australia  have 
escaped  on  the  American  whale-ship  Catalpa .” 

Commenting  on  this  fact,  the  Pilot  of  June  17  said  : 
“To  one  devoted  man,  more  than  to  any  other,  the  whole 
affair  is  creditable.  He  it  was  who,  with  the  pitiful  letters 
received  from  the  prisoners  in  his  hand,  excited  the  sym- 
pathy of  Irish  conventions  and  individual  men.  The 
event  proves  the  truth  and  devotedness  of  the  man.  We 
have  asked  him  for  permission  to  publish  his  name,  but  he 
will  not  allow  us  until  the  men  are  absolutely  safe.”  That 
man  was  John  Devoy. 

Among  Devoy’ s first  confidants  were  John  Kenneally 
and  James  McCarthy  Fennell,  two  political  prisoners  who 
had  been  released  in  1869.  The  Clan-na-Gael  convention  at 
Baltimore,  in  1874,  appointed  as  a committee  to  carry  out 
the  project,  John  Devoy,  John  W.  Goff,  Patrick  Mahon, 
James  Reynolds,  and  John  C.  Talbot.  The  dangerous  role 
of  active  agent  in  the  case  was  assigned  to  John  Breslin, 
associated  with  whom  was  Thomas  Desmond  of  San  Fran- 
cisco. The  two  sailed  from  that  port  for  Sydney,  New 
South  Wales,  September  13,  1875,  arriving  on  October 
16,  and  at  once  placing  themselves  in  communication 
with  friends  of  the  prisoners.  One  of  these  was  John  King, 
another  J.  Edward  Kelly,  an  ex-prisoner,  who  died  after- 
ward in  Boston.  Sympathizing  miners  in  New  Zealand, 
canvassed  by  the  friends  of  King,  contributed  $4000,  which 
proved  very  timely  at  an  important  crisis  of  the  enterprise. 
Two  other  agents  sent  out  by  the  revolutionary  organization 
in  Ireland  also  appeared  on  the  scene.  They  were  Denis 
F.  McCarthy  of  Cork,  Ireland,  and  John  Walsh  of  Dur- 
ham, England.  They  had  $5000  capital  with  them,  and 
were  surprised  and  delighted  on  learning  that  a much  more 
feasible  scheme  had  been  planned  by  the  Americans.  They 


160 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


volunteered  their  assistance  and  were  assigned  the  duty  of 
cutting  the  telegraph  wires  after  the  escape  should  be 
effected.  King  was  given  the  post  of  rear  guard,  to  ride 
behind  the  rescued  prisoners  and  notify  them  in  case  of 
pursuit.  Breslin  and  Desmond,  under  the  respective  aliases 
of  “Mr.  Collins”  and  “ Mr.  Jones,”  arrived  at  Fremantle 
in  November,  1875.  They  traveled,  one  first  and  the  other 
second  class,  and  did  not  appear  to  be  acquainted  with  each 
other.  Both  men  were  well  supplied  with  funds,  and  both 
showed  good  taste  in  horse  flesh  ; regularly,  once  a week,  or 
oftener,  during  the  summer  season,  between  November  and 
April,  hiring  carriages  and  driving  about  the  suburbs  of 
the  town.  “ Mr.  Collins”  appeared  to  be  a capitalist,  and 
interested  himself  in  studying  the  resources  of  the  country 
with  a view  to  investment.  The  Governor  of  the  place 
showed  him  the  only  lion  in  Fremantle,  the  great  penal 
institution,  which  “Mr.  Collins”  visited  more  than  once 
during  his  stay.  During  one  of  his  visits  he  conveyed  a 
letter  to  the  six  political  prisoners,  and  soon  after  met  James 
Wilson,  with  whom  he  arranged  the  details  of  the  escape. 
Wilson  was  to  have  his  party  ready  on  a certain  day,  with 
a pass  to  take  them  through  the  sentry  lines,  after  achiev- 
ing which  they  would  find  horses,  weapons,  and  allies.  The 
medium  of  communication  was  William  Foley,  ex-private 
of  the  Fifth  Dragoon  Guards.  He  had  been  found  guilty  of 
complicity  in  the  Fenian  movement  and  sent  to  Western 
Australia,  where  ill-treatment,  insufficient  food,  and  hard 
work  shattered  his  strong  constitution  long  before  the 
expiration  of  his  seven  years’  sentence.  Just  before  the 
rescue  was  effected  he  was  sent  to  England  by  his  friends ; 
thence  he  traveled  to  New  York,  where  he  died  of  his 
sufferings  on  the  1st  of  November  following. 

In  the  mean  time  the  bark  Catalpa , purchased  by  the 
Clan-na-Gael  men,  had  sailed  from  New  Bedford,  the  29th 
of  April,  1875.  It  was  commanded  by  Captain  Anthony,  a 
native  of  Nantucket,  and  a cool,  brave  man.  His  first 
officer,  Smith,  was  an  American,  of  Scotch  parentage  ; only 
one  Irishman  was  among  the  crew,  which  was  purposely 


161 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 

selected  by  Captain  Hathaway  to  consist  of  Malays,  Kana- 
kas, and  Portuguese  negroes,  with  one  or  two  whites.  It 
was  necessary  that  the  ship  should  present  in  every  respect 
the  appearance  of  a genuine  whaler.  Captain  Anthony  had 
a roving  charter,  “To  go  where  I liked,  stay  as  long  as  I 
pleased,  and  return  home  when  I got  ready.  I was  to  be  at 
Australia  in  the  spring  of  1876  to  co-operate  with  Fenian 
agents  for  the  release  of  six  prisoners  confined  at  Fre- 
mantle.” 

The  Catalpa  cruised  for  a year,  capturing  one  whale  in 
the  North  Atlantic,  from  which  $11,000  were  realized,  and 
on  the  1st  of  March,  1876,  arrived  at  Bunbury,  Western 
Australia.  Captain  Anthony’s  story  is  as  terse  as  a log 
book  : “We  cleared  at  Teneriffe  on  the  10th  of  November 
for  River  La  Platte  and  other  places  beyond  the  seas  ; did 
not  go  to  the  river,  but  sailed  direct  for  Bunbury  on  the 
west  coast  of  Australia,  arriving  the  last  of  March.  The 
day  after  arrival,  received  a telegram  from  Fremantle, 
signed  J.  Collins,  as  followed  : ‘ Any  news  from  New  Bed- 
ford? When  are  you  going  to  Fremantle.’  I answered, 
‘No  news  from  New  Bedford;  shall  not  go  to  Fre- 
mantle.’ ” 

Two  days  later  “Collins”  came  from  Fremantle  and 
took  lodgings  in  the  hotel  at  which  Captain  Anthony  was 
staying.  He  was  introduced  to  the  latter,  who  invited  him 
on  board  his  ship.  There  Breslin  and  Anthony  studied  the 
chart  of  the  coast  and  decided  upon  their  plans.  The  next 
day  the  coasting  steamer  Georgette  stopped  at  Bunbury  on 
her  way  to  Fremantle.  Anthony  and  Breslin  went  as 
passengers ; the  former,  as  a fellow  sailor,  made  acquain- 
tance with  the  Captain  of  the  Georgette , who  gave  him  all 
the  information  he  desired  in  regard  to  the  course  taken  by 
vessels  in  those  waters,  the  soundings,  etc.  On  arriving  at 
Fremantle  they  were  surprised  to  find  a British  gunboat  in 
the  harbor,  and  decided  to  defer  operations  until  her  depar- 
ture. Anthony  remained  at  Fremantle  five  days,  driving 
with  Breslin  over  the  twenty-three  miles  of  road  between 
that  place  and  Rockingham,  which  was  to  be  their  point  of 


162 


JOHN  BOYLE  o’ REILLY. 


departure.  At  Rockingham  they  planted  stakes  to  mark 
the  spot  at  which  Anthony's  whaleboat  was  to  land  in  the 
night  for  the  prisoners.  Before  parting  they  arranged  a 
cipher  code  for  telegraphing.  44  When  the  ship  was  ready 
for  sea,”  continues  Captain  Anthony,  “I  telegraphed  the 
fact  to  Collins,  stating  that  I should  leave  the  next  day. 
The  next  day  there  was  a fierce  storm  and  I could  not 
leave,  but  I thought  I would  get  away  in  time  to  carry  out 
the  plans,  and  so  did  not  communicate  with  Collins.  The 
day  following  I found  that  I could  not  get  away  ; attempted 
to  telegraph  to  Collins,  but  it  was  Good  Friday,  and  the 
telegraph  offices  were  not  open.  Found  the  female  opera- 
tor, who  said  that  the  office  could  not  be  opened  unless  it 
was  a case  of  4 life  or  death.’  Told  her  it  was  more  important 
than  either,  and  she  decided  to  send  the  message.  As  good 
luck  would  have  it,  the  office  at  Fremantle  was  open,  and 
the  dispatch  was  received.  Saturday  morning  I telegraphed 
to  Collins,  4 1 shall  certainly  leave  Bunbury  for  the  whaling 
ground  to-morrow  ; I suppose  you  and  your  friends  start 
for  York  on  Monday  morning.’ 

44  York  is  a small  village,  and  according  to  our  cipher  it 
was  to  mean  Bunbury.  ‘Collins’  telegraphed  back  4 1 
wish  you  flood  luck  ; I wish  you  would  strike  oil ; au 
rewir .’  ” 

The  Cat  alp  a sailed  on  Saturday  afternoon,  and  on  Sun- 
day noon  was  thirty  miles  southwest  of  Rottennest  light- 
house, when  Captain  Anthony,  with  six  of  his  best  men, 
started  in  his  whaleboat  for  the  shore.  The  boat  was 
manned  with  a third  mate,  two  Portuguese,  two  Malays, 
and  a native  of  St.  Helena.  “None  of  them,”  says  Cap- 
tain Anthony,  4 4 knew  my  errand,  nor  did  any  one  on 
board  the  ship  except  my  mate,  who  was  informed  when  the 
ship  was  six  months  out ; told  the  boat’s  crew  I was  going 
to  Fremantle  for  an  anchor  to  supply  the  place  of  one  that 
was  broken  in  the  gale  at  Bunbury.  I kept  it  a secret 
from  my  boat’s  crew,  for  their  own  good,  knowing  that 
there  was  a great  chance  of  our  being  caught,  and  feeling 
that  in  such  a case  their  ignorance  would  clear  them.” 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES.  163 

(There  is  a good  deal  of  unassuming  chivalry  in  this  last 
simple  statement.) 

The  boat  arrived  at  the  Rockingham  shore  at  eight 
o’clock  Sunday  evening.  At  daylight  next  morning  they 
saw  a party  of  five  men  working  at  a jetty  about  a quarter 
of  a mile  away. 

“One  of  them  came  down  and  began  questioning  me; 
told  him  the  same  as  I had  told  the  men,  that  I was  bound 
to  Fremantle  for  an  anchor  to  supply  the  place  of  one 
broken  ; had  got  so  far  and  had  stopped  to^resk  He  did 
not  appear  satisfied,  and  intimated  that  we  were  deserters. 
Convinced  him  that  we  were  not  by  showing  him  that  I 
was  master  of  the  ship.  On  inquiry,  I found  that  the  men 
at  work  at  the  quay  went  there  to  load  timber  on  the 
steamer  Georgette , which  was  hourly  expected  to  take  it 
on  board.  Things  now  looked  slightly  squally  ; my  boat’s 
crew  began  to  grow  uneasy  at  remaining  so  long  on  shore 
without  any  apparent  object.  I told  them  to  obey  my 
orders  and  no  harm  would  come  to  them.  I told  them, 
also,  that  when  I gave  the  order  to  man  the  boat  and  pull 
off,  they  must  do  it  in  a hurry.  This  seemed  to  cause  them 
more  uneasiness  than  before  ; but  it  was  now  after  ten 
o’clock,  and  I knew  the  men  would  be  alongside  soon.” 

Leaving  Captain  Anthony  and  his  uneasy  miscellaneous 
crew  for  the  moment,  we  will  let  John  Breslin  take  up  his 
story.  The  following  is  his  graphic  narrative  : 

At  7 o’clock  a.m.,  I went  to  Albert’s  stables  and  found  the  pair  of 
horses  I wanted,  and  a nice  light  four-wheeled  trap  already  harnessed 
up  and  waiting.  I told  the  hostler  to  let  them  stand  for  about  twenty 
minutes,  and  then  went  and  told  Desmond  to  get  his  horses  harnessed 
up  and  be  ready  to  leave  at  7.30  A.M.  I had  arranged  with  Desmond 
for  him  to  leave  Fremantle  by  a side  street,  which,  after  a few  turns, 
took  him  on  to  the  Rockingham  road,  while  I drove  up  High  Street,  as 
if  going  to  Perth,  turning  sharp  round  by  the  prison  and  on  to  the 
same  road.  King,  being  well  mounted,  was  to  remain  after  we  started, 
for  a reasonable  time,  and  then  to  follow  and  let  us  know  if  the  alarm 
was  given.  At  7.30  a.m.  I drove  slowly  up  the  principal  street,  and, 
turning  to  the  right,  walked  my  horses  by  the  warden's  quarters  and 
pensioners’  barracks.  The  men  were  beginning  to  assemble  for  parade, 


164 


JOHN  BOYLE  O*  REILLY. 

I had  arranged  with  our  men  that  I would  have  the  traps  in  position 
on  the  road  at  a quarter  to  eight,  and  would  remain  so,  the  nearest  one 
being  within  five  minutes  run  of  the  prison,  until  9 o’clock  a.m.  Being 
ahead  of  my  time,  I drove  slowly  along  the  Rockingham  road,  and 
Desmond,  coming  up  shortly  after,  drove  by  me.  Coming  to  a shaded 
part  of  the  road,  we  halted,  and  having  divided  the  hats  and  coats, 
three  of  each  to  each  trap,  I commenced  to  drive  back  to  Fremantle, 
Desmond  following  ; time,  five  minutes  to  eight.  A few  moments 
after,  I saw  three  men  in  the  prison  dress  wheel  round  and  march  down 
the  Rockingham  road.  Driving  up  to  them,  I found  the  men  were 
Wilson,  Cranston,  and  Harrington.  I directed  them  to  pass  on  and 
get  into  the  trap  with  Desmond  and  drive  away.  Desmond  wheeled 
his  horses  around  and  they  were  only  seated  and  ready  to  start  when 
the  other  three  came  in  sight,  and  on  driving  up  to  them  I found  one 
man  carrying  a spade,  and  another  a large  tin  kerosene  can.  As  soon 
as  I came  near  enough  to  be  recognized,  he  who  carried  the  spade  flung 
it  with  vim  into  the  bush,  and  the  holder  of  the  kerosene  can  bestowed 
a strong  kick  upon  it  in  good  football  fashion.  I found  the  men  were 
Darragh,  Hogan,  and  Hassett.  I now  had  all  the  men  I wanted,  and 
felt  glad.  My  horses  got  restive  and  refused  to  wheel  around.  Darragh 
caught  one  by  the  head,  but  he  jibed  and  kicked  so  I was  afraid  he 
would  break  the  harness.  I told  Darragh  to  let  him  go,  and,  whipping 
both  of  them  up  smartly,  they  started  fairly  together,  and  when  I got 
them  on  a wider  part  of  the  road  they  wheeled  around  nicely.  I now 
drove  back  and  took  up  my  men.  Desmond  was  already  well  out  of 
sight,  and  King  shortly  after  rode  up  and  told  me  all  was  quiet  when 
he  left. 

With  regard  to  the  method  or  plan  of  communication  between  the 
prisoners  themselves,  it  may  be  well  to  state  that  their  good  conduct 
and  length  of  imprisonment  had  entitled  them  to  the  rank  of  constable, 
which  enabled  them  to  communicate  with  each  other  with  greater  ease 
and  freedom  than  the  other  prisoners.  Wilson  and  Harrington  worked 
in  the  same  party  at  the  construction  of  harbor  works  in  Fremantle. 
Hogan  was  a painter  by  trade,  and  on  the  morning  of  the  escape  was 
employed  painting  the  house  of  Mr.  Fauntleroy,  outside  the  prison 
wails.  Cranston  was  employed  in  the  stores,  and  as  messenger  occa- 
sionally. Darragh  was  clerk  and  attendant  to  the  Church  of  England 
chaplain,  and  enjoyed  considerable  facilities  for  communicating  with 
the  other  prisoners,  and  on  the  morning  of  the  escape  took  Hassett  with 
him  to  plant  potatoes  in  the  garden  of  Mr.  Broomhole,  the  clerk  of 
works  for  the  convict  department. 

After  breakfast  on  the  morning  of  the  17th  of  April,  all  the  political 
prisoners  were  engaged  outside  the  prison  wall.  Cranston  passed  out 
as  if  going  on  a message,  and,  having  overtaken  the  warder  who  was 


165 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 

marching  the  working  party  in  which  Wilson  and  Harrington  worked, 
showed  him  a key,  and  told  him  he  had  been  sent  to  take  Wilson  and 
Harrington  to  move  some  furniture  in  the  Governor’s  house,  which 
was  the  nearest  point  to  where  they  expected  to  meet  me.  The  warder 
told  Wilson  and  Harrington  to  go  with  Cranston,  and  they  marched 
off.  Darragh  took  Hassett,  as  if  going  to  work,  in  the  same  direction, 
and  was  joined  by  Hogan,  who  made  an  excuse  for  temporary  absence 
to  the  warder  who  had  charge  of  him.  Both  parties  meb^tUthe  Rock- 
ingham road. 

I now  drove  on,  letting  King  fall  behind,  and  in  half  an  hour  was 
close  behind  Desmond.  We  held  on  without  accident  or  incident  until 
we  reached  the  Rocking  Hotel,  when  Somers,  the  proprietor,  who  knew 
me,  called  out  to  know  what  time  the  Georgette  was  expected  to  be  at 
the  timber  jetty.  I told  him  the  Georgette  was  at  the  jetty  in  Freman- 
tle when  I left,  but  I did  not  know  when  she  would  be  at  Rockingham. 
At  10.30  a.m.  we  made  the  beach  and  got  aboard  the  whale-boat.  The 
men  had  been  instructed  to  stow  themselves  in  the  smallest  possible 
space,  so  as  not  to  interfere  with  the  men  at  the  oars,  and  in  a few  mo- 
ments all  was  ready  and  the  word  was  given  to  shove  off.  Under  the 
powerful  strokes  of  the  whalemen  the  boat  had  made  two  miles  out  to 
sea  before  the  mounted  police,  who  had  promptly  taken  the  alarm,  had 
arrived  at  the  spot  to  recover  the  horses  and  wagons  used  in  the  escape. 

In  the  mean  time  the  wind  and  sea  had  arisen,  the  boat’s 
course  was  dead  to  windward,  and  the  ship  invisible  below 
the  horizon.  Presently  the  wind  changed  a little  and  the 
crew  hoisted  a small  sail.  They  soon  sighted  the  ship  and 
were  fast  overhauling  her  when  a squall  struck  them,  carry- 
ing away  their  mast  and  sail.  They  pulled  wearily  ahead 
for  two  hours  longer ; then  set  the  jib  on  an  oar.  The 
heavily  laden  boat  continually  shipped  seas  over  the  stern, 
keeping  the  men  engaged  in  baling  her  out.  So  they 
worked  all  through  the  stormy  night,  hungry,  tired,  and 
soaking  wet.  At  daylight  they  sighted  the  ship  again  and 
tried  to  signal  her,  bkt  in  vain.  Fortunately  for  them- 
selves, as  it  proved,  their  little  boat  was  not  visible  in  the 
waste  of  waters,  for  the  Government  steamer  Georgette  came 
presently  out  of  Fremantle  harbor,  steering  straight  for 
the  Catalpa.  The  men  in  the  boat  took  in  the  small  jib 
which  they  had  hoisted  and  again  resumed  their  work  at 
the  oars.  The  Georgette  was  seen  to  go  out  to  the  Catalpa , 


166 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 

parley  awhile  with  her,  then  steam  in  toward  the  shore, 
making  a complete  circuit  around  the  boat  without  perceiv- 
ing it. 

Another  enemy  was  also  in  sight,  the  coast-guard  boat, 
which  went  out  toward  the  Catalpa  as  the  Georgette  came 
back  from  her,  thus  intending  to  head  off  the  fugitives 
wherever  they  might  be.  The  men  in  the  whaleboat  again 
hoisted  their  little  sail  and  made  for  the  ship,  which  at  last 
sighted  and  bore  down  toward  them.  As  it  did  so,  the 
coast-guard  boat  also  discovered  the  boat  and  made  sail 
in  the  hope  of  intercepting  it.  So  close  was  the  race  that 
the  Caialpa , reaching  the  boat  first,  did  not  wait  for  the 
passengers  to  swarm  up  the  sides,  but  lowering  the  falls, 
grappled  it  fore  and  aft,  and  hoisted  boat,  men,  and  all  on 
board. 

Immediately  Breslin  and  his  men  went  below,  where 
they  armed  themselves,  with  the  full  determination  not  to 
be  taken  alive.  The  coast-guard  boat  drew  off  after  wit- 
nessing the  escape  and  identifying  several  of  the  prisoners. 

“We  have  not  done  with  you  yet,”  shouted  the  inspec- 
tor of  the  water  police,  as  Captain  Anthony,  turning  to 
Breslin,  said,  “What  now,  Mr.  Collins?”  “Put  to  sea,” 
was  the  answer,  and  the  captain  thundered  out,  “’Bout 
ship  ; put  to  sea.” 

At  6.30  on  the  following  morning  the  Catalpa  was  over- 
hauled by  the  Georgette , which  fired  a shot  across  her 
bows. 

The  captain  of  the  Georgette  spoke  through  his  trumpet, 
“Heave  to.” 

Captain  Anthony  answered,  “ What  for  \ ” 

The  steamer  replied,  “ You  have  six  Crown  prisoners  on 
board.” 

Anthony  answered,  “ I have  no  prisoners  here.” 

“ May  I come  on' board  ? ” was  the  next  question  from 
the  Georgette. 

Anthony  quickly  sent  back  the  answer,  “No,  sir.” 

“I  see  the  prisoners  on  the  deck,”  came  from  the 
steamer 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


167 


Captain  Anthony  ordered  his  men  to  stand  up  to  show 
there  were  no  prisoners  there  (the  prisoners  were  at  this 
time  below). 

Colonel  Harvest,  who  was  in  command  of  the  troops, 
then  spoke  to  the  Catalpa:  “ You  are  amenable  to  British 
laws.  Heave  to,  or  I’ll  blow  your  mast  out.” 

“I  know  no  British  laws,”  said  the  captain  of  the 
whaler. 

“I  have  telegraphed  to  your  Government,  and  I find 
you  are  amenable  to  me,”  said  Harvest. 

Anthony  replied,  “I’m  bound  for  sea  ; I cannotwait.’  ’ 

Colonel  Harvest  then  shouted,  “I’ 11  give  you  fifteen 
minutes  to  surrender.  May  I come  on  board,  sir  ? ” 

“No,  sir!”  said  Anthony,  so  decidedly  as  not  to  be 
mistaken. 

During  the  altercation  between  the  bark  and  the  steamer, 
“ Collins  ” called  the  men,  and  said,  “ What  had  we  better 
do,  men  ? ” 

They  replied  resolutely,  “ Sink  or  swim,  no  surrender ! ” 

The  mate,  Mr.  Smith,  then  deliberately  said,  “By 

we’ll  sink  under  that  flag  before  we’ll  give  it  up.” 

He  got  his  rifles,  whale  lances,  and  harpoons  ready,  and 
also  some  heavy  logs  to  sink  any  boat  coming  alongside  ; 
the  whale-guns  were  loaded,  and  every  man  had  fifty 
rounds  of  rifle  and  pistol  cartridges,  and  stood  ready. 

After  an  interval  Colonel  Harvest  again  asked  : “ May 
we  come  on  board  ?” 

Then  Anthony’ s clear  voice  again  rang  out,  but  louder 
than  before,  “ No,  sir  ! ” 

“Collins  ” observed  by  this  time  that  the  Georgette  was 
following  up  the  Catalpa  and  trying  to  hedge  her  in  to  the 
land.  He  communicated  his  suspicions  to  the  captain, 
who  cried  out,  “ ’Bout  ship,  keep  off  to  sea.” 

The  Catalpa' s sails  filled,  and  her  bow  was  directed 
amidships  of  the  Georgette.  As  she  gathered  way,  the 
police  boat,  being  in  some  danger  of  being  cut  in  two, 
backed  hastily  out.  Then,  after  following  the  Catalpa  a 
short  distance,  she  swung  around  slowly  and  went  home 


168 


JOHN  BOYLE  O'REILLY. 


to  report  the  failure  of  a very  vain  attempt,  that  of  beating 
an  American  in  the  national  game  of  “ bluff.” 

There  was  one  incident  of  this  daring  enterprise  which 
completed  its  dramatic  intensity.  The  soldier  convicts  in 
Fremantle  numbered  one  more  than  those  who  were  rescued. 
That  one  was  purposely  left  behind,  because  of  an  act  of 
treachery  which  he  had  attempted  against  his  fellows  ten 
long  years  before.  He  was  tried  with  the  others,  by  court- 
martial,  and  found  guilty  of  treason ; but  before  his  sen- 
tence received  the  approval  of  the  Commander-in-Chief  he 
had  offered  to  divulge  the  names  of  certain  of  his  comrades 
not  yet  arrested,  though  implicated  in  the  Fenian  con- 
spiracy. His  offer  was  not  accepted.  The  Government 
punished  him  for  his  treason,  and  his  comrades,  half  a 
score  of  years  afterward,  punished  him  more  cruelly  for 
the  treason  which  he  had  contemplated  against  them. 

There  was  also  an  interesting  sequel  to  the  affair.  The 
city  marshal  of  New  Bedford,  some  time  in  August, 
received  a formidable  document  bearing  the  following 
address : 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


169 


On  Public  Service  Only, 

Via  San  Francisco  and  Sidney. 

The  Officer  in  charge  of  Police  Department , 
New  Bedford , 


Police  Department. 

Massachusetts , 

United  States  America. 

The  contents  were  as  follows  : 

Police  Department, 

Chief  Office,  Perth,  Western  Australia, 


April  18,  1876. 

Sir  : 

James  Darragh,9707,  life  sen- 
tence, 2d  March,  1866,  aged 
42,  Fenian,  absconded  from 
Fremantle,  8:30  a.m.,  April 
17, 1876. 

Martin  Hogan,  9767,  sentence, 
life,  August  21, 1866,  aged  37, 
Fenian, absconded  asabove. 
Michael  Harrington,  9757,  life 
sentence,  July  7,  1866,  48 
years,  Fenian,  absconded, 
as  above. 

Thomas  Hassett,  9758,  life 
sentence,  August  15,  1866, 
age  36,  Fenian,  etc. 

Robert  Cranston.  9702,  life 
sentence,  June  26, 1866,  Fe- 
nian, absconded,  etc. 

Jfames  Wilson,  9915,  life  sen- 
tence, August  20, 1866,  age  40, 
absconded,  etc. 

N.  B.  — Martin  Hogan’s 
marks  include  the  letter  D 
v/ii  his  left  side ; so  do  those 
if  Michael  Harrington, 
Thomas  Hassett,  and  James 
Wilson. 

I beg  to  inform  you  that  on  the  17th  inst. 
the  imperial  convicts  named  in  the  margin  ab- 
sconded from  the  convict  settlement  at  Fre- 
mantle in  this  colony,  and  escaped  from  the  col- 
ony in  the  American  whaling  bark  Catalpa,  G. 
Anthony,  master.  This  bark  is  from  New  Bed- 
ford, Massachusetts,  U.  S.  A.  The  convicts  were 
taken  from  the  shore  in  a whale-boat  belong- 
ing to  the  Catalpa , manned  by  Captain  An- 
thony and  six  of  the  crew.  The  abettors  were 
Collins,  Jones,  and  Johnson. 

I attach  a description  of  each  of  the  abscon- 
ders, and  have  to  request  that  you  will  be  good 
enough  to  furnish  me  with  any  particulars  you 
may  be  able  to  gather  concerning  them. 

I have  the  honor  to  be,  sir, 

Your  obedient  servant, 

M.  A.  Smith,  Supt.  of  Police. 

To  the  Officer  in  charge  of  the  Police  Department , 

New  Bedford , Massachusetts,  XJ.  S.  A. 


170 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


Now,  the  officer  in  charge  of  “ Police  Department,  New 
Bedford,  Massachusetts,  U.  S.  A.,”  at  this  period  was  one 
Henry  C.  Hathaway,  the  same  who  had  rescued  John 
Boyle  O’ Reilly  from  captivity  and  who  had  helped  to  fit 
out  the  Catalpa.  It  is  surmised  that  he  did  not  show  any 
undue  zeal  in  aiding  the  Australian  authorities  to  recover 
possession  of  the  fugitives. 

The  Catalpa  arrived  at  New  York  on  Saturday,  August 
19.  Five  days  later  she  came  into  the  port  of  New  Bed- 
ford, a great  crowd  assembling  on  the  wharves  to  welcome 
her  with  cheers  and  booming  of  cannon.  Next  day  a 
public  reception  was  given  to  the  heroes.  John  Boyle 
O’  Reilly  was  the  orator  of  the  occasion.  The  following  sum- 
mary of  his  speech  was  published  at  the  time.  He  said  it 
was  with  no  ordinary  feelings  that  he  was  there.  That  he 
owed  to  New  Bedford  no  ordinary  debt,  and  would  gladly 
have  come  a thousand  miles  to  do  honor  to  the  New  Bedford 
whalemen.  Seven  years  of  liberty  and  a happy  home  in  a 
free  country  were  his  debt  of  gratitude,  and  when  the  close 
of  his  sentence  came,  in  1886,  his  debt  to  New  Bedford 
might  be  grown  too  heavy  to  bear. 

“They  were  there,”  he  said,  “to  do  honor  and  to  show 
their  gratitude  to  the  man  who  had  done  a brave  and  won- 
derful deed.  The  self  sacrifice  and  unfailing  devotion  of 
him  who  had  taken  his  life  in  his  hand  and  beached  his 
whaleboat  on  the  penal  colony,  defying  its  fearful  laws, 
defying  the  gallows  and  the  chain-gang,  in  order  to  keep 
faith  with  the  men  who  had  placed  their  trust  in  him — this 
is  almost  beyond  belief  in  our  selfish  and  commonplace 
time. 

“ There  are  sides  to  this  question  worth  looking  at.  To 
Irishmen  it  was  significant  in  manifold  ways,  one  of  which 
was  that  these  men,  being  soldiers,  could  not  be  left  in  prison 
without  demoralizing  the  Irishmen  in  the  English  army, 
who  would  not  forget  that  their  comrades  had  been  forsaken 
and  left  to  die  in  confinement  when  the  civilian  leaders  of 
the  movement  had  been  set  free.  But  the  spirit  that 
prompted  their  release  was  larger  and  nobler  than  this,  and 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


171 


its  beauty  could  be  appreciated  by  all  men,  partaking  as  it 
did  of  the  universal  instinct  of  humanity  to  love  their  race 
and  their  native  land. 

“ England  said  that  the  rescue  was  a lawless  and  dis- 
graceful filibustering  raid.  Not  so  ; if  these  men  were 
criminals  the  rescue  would  be  criminal,  but  they  were  politi- 
cal offenders  against  England,  not  against  law,  or  order, 
or  religion.  They  had  lain  in  prison  for  ten  years,  with 
millions  of  their  countrymen  asking  their  release,  imploring 
England,  against  their  will  to  beg,  to  set  these  men  at 
liberty.  Had  England  done  so  it  would  have  partially  dis- 
armed Ireland.  A generous  act  by  England  would  be 
reciprocated  instantly  by  millions  of  the  warmest  hearts  in 
the  world.  But  she  is  blind  as  of  old  ; blind,  and  arrogant, 
and  cruel.  She  would  not  release  the  men  ; she  scorned  to 
give  Ireland  an  answer.  She  called  the  prisoners  cowardly 
criminals,  not  political  offenders 

“ When  the  ship  sailed  and  was  a long  time  at  sea, 
doubts  and  fears  for  the  safety  of  the  enterprise  were  sure 
to  come,  but  Captain  Hathaway  said  once  and  always, 
- 6 the  man  who  engaged  to  do  this  will  keep  that  engage- 
ment, or  he  wont  come  out  of  the  penal  colony.’  ” 

After  describing  some  of  his  experiences  in  the  penal 
colony,  Mr.  O’Reilly  pointed  to  the  bronzed  and  worn  face 
of  Mr.  Hassett,  one  of  the  rescued  prisoners,  and  said  : 
“ Look  at  that  man  sitting  there.  Six  years  ago  he  escaped 
from  his  prison  in  the  penal  colony  and  fled  into  the  bush, 
and  lived  there  like  a wild  beast  for  a whole  year,  hunted 
from  district  to  district,  in  a blind,  but  manful  attempt  to 
win  his  liberty.  When  England  said  the  rescue  was  illegal, 
America  could  answer,  as  the  Anti-Slavery  men  answered 
when  they  attacked  the  Constitution,  as  England  herself 
answered  in  the  cause  of  Poland  : ‘We  have  acted  from  a 
higher  law  than  your  written  constitution  and  treaties — the 
law  of  God  and  humanity.’  It  was  in  obedience  to  this 
supreme  law  that  Captain  Anthony  rescued  the  prisoners, 
and  pointed  his  finger  at  the  Stars  and  Stripes  when  the 
English  vessel  threatened  to  fire  on  his  ship. 


172 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


“The  Irishman,”  concluded  Mr.  O’ Reilly  “who  could 
forget  what  the  Stars  and  Stripes  have  done  for  his  country- 
men, deserves  that  in  the  time  of  need  that  flag  shall  for- 
get him.” 

In  the  Pilot  he  gave  the  following  sketch  of  the  daring 
leader  of  the  Catalpa  exploit : 

JOHN  J.  BRESLIN-THE  MAN  OF  TWO  RESCUES. 

Out  of  all  the  incidents  of  the  so-called  “Fenian  Movement,”  the 
most  brilliantly  daring  have  been  two  rescues  of  prisoners — namely, 
that  of  the  Chief  Organizer,  James  Stephens,  from  Richmond  Prison, 
Dublin,  in  1865,  and  of  the  six  military  prisoners  from  Western  Australia 
last  April.  These  two  rescues  are  in  many  ways  remarkable.  Unlike 
almost  every  other  enterprise  of  Fenianism,  they  have  been  completely 
successful  ; and,  when  completed,  have  been  commented  on  in  the  same 
way,  as  “ well  done.”  Every  other  attempt  or  proposal  has  fallen 
through  or  ended  with  loss.  The  rescue  of  Kelly  and  Deasy  from  the 
police  van  in  Manchester  was  successful  so  far  as  the  release  of  the 
prisoners  went  ; but  it  was  bought  with  the  lives  of  Allen,  Larkin,  and 
O’Brien,  and  the  nine  years’  misery  of  Condon.  The  proposed  attack 
on  Chester  Castle  was  discovered  and  prevented  by  the  English  govern- 
ment. The  seizure  of  the  Pigeon  House  Fort,  with  its  armory,  at  Dub- 
lin, never  emerged  from  the  stage  of  dreamland.  The  attempt  to  blow 
up  Clerkenwell  Prison,  London,  to  release  Rickard  Burke,  was  a dis- 
astrous failure,  by  which  nothing  was  accomplished,  by  which  many 
suffered,  the  lives  of  several  poor  working  people  were  sacrificed,  and 
the  wretched  lodging-house  homes  of  others  destroyed. 

But  the  rescue  of  James  Stephens,  even  while  the  government  was 
gloating  over  his  capture,  was  as  unexpected  and  thorough  as  if  the 
man  had  vanished  in  smoke.  No  one  suffered  from  it — at  least  from 
English  law — no  one  was  arrested  ; neither  the  government  nor  the 
public  ever  knew  how  or  by  whom  it  was  accomplished.  The  man  or 
men  who  did  the  work  claimed  no  recompense  either  of  money  or 
notoriety.  Two  thousand  pounds  reward  failed  to  elicit  the  slightest 
clew.  The  thing  was  cleverly,  cleanly,  bravely  done,  and  those  who 
knew  of  it  knew  how  to  keep  the  secret. 

The  recent  rescue  of  the  six  military  prisoners  from  the  penal  colony 
of  West  Australia  was  performed  in  a similar  manner,  as  to  daring, 
silence,  and  complete  success.  Looking  back  on  it,  no  one  can  say  that 
aught  was  forgotten  or  left  to  chance.  With  admirable  deliberation 
every  inch  of  the  train  was  laid,  every  sporadic  interest  was  attended 
to,  and  the  eventful  rescue  was  carried  out  to  the  prearranged  letter 
with  scientific  precision.  As  in  the  escape  of  Stephens,  no  trail  re- 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


173 


mained  ; no  one  left  in  the  trap  ; no  price  paid  in  human  life  or  suffer- 
ing. It  was  a clean  thing  from  beginning  to  end  ; it  was  “ well  done.” 

They  have  a resemblance,  these  two  rescues,  and  so  they  ought  to 
have — for  the  same  mind  planned  and  the  same  hands  carried  both  to 
a conclusion. 

In  both  these  desperate  undertakings,  John  Breslin  was  “the  man 
in  the  gap.”  In  both  John  Devoy  was  his  careful,  patient,  fore- 
thoughtful fellow- worker.  Such  men  are  not  paid  in  words, — they  are 
of  that  mold  that  draw  their  reward  from  the  inner  consciousness  of 
achievement.  But  there  is  a public  good  in  upholding  the  deed  of 
bravery,  modesty,  and  devotion  ; there  is  the  highest  teaching  in  silent, 
manly  purpose  ; and  Mr.  Breslin  and  Mr.  Devoy  must  pardon  us  for 
criticising  their  work  without  their  consent.  John  J.  Breslin  has  lived 
in  Boston  for  many  years.  A man  of  few  words,  of  small  acquaint’ 
ance,  earning  his  bread  in  unassuming  ways— few  knew,  and  to  fevi 
were  shown,  the  culture  and  refinement  behind  the  modest  exterior.  In 
thought  and  appearance  eminently  a gentleman  ; in  demeanor  dignified 
and  reserved  ; in  observance,  rather  distrustful,  as  if  disappointed  in  hia 
ideal  man  ; somewhat  cynical,  perhaps,  and  often  stubbornly  prejudiced 
and  unjust ; a lover  of  and  a successful  worker  in  literature, — such  is 
an  outline  of  a character  that  may  indeed  be  called  extraordinary, — of 
a man  who,  if  he  break  down  the  barrier  of  reserve  that  has  hitherto 
hedged  him  round,  has  it  in  his  hands  to  win  brilliant  distinction  in 
any  public  career  he  may  select. 

The  Irish  nationalists,  owners  of  the  bark  Catalpa , 
disposed  of  the  vessel  in  a generous  and  highly  creditable 
way.  Mr.  John  Devoy,  of  New  York,  and  Mr.  Reynolds 
of  New  Haven,  Conn.,  in  wThose  name  the  Catalpa  was 
entered,  visited  New  Bedford  in  February,  1877,  and  pre- 
sented the  vessel,  as  she  stood,  with  her  whaling  inventory, 
to  the  three  men  who  best  deserved  her,  namely,  John  E. 
Richardson,  the  agent;  George  S.  Anthony,  the  captain, 
and  Henry  C.  Hathaway,  the  Chief  of  Police,  whose  fidelity 
and  sagacity  had  so  much  to  do  with  the  success  of  the 
rescue.  Devoy  and  Reynolds  also  settled  with  the  crew  on 
most  liberal  terms.  The  total  expense  of  the  expedition 
was  about  $25,000. 


CHAPTER  X. 


Death  of  John  O’Mahony — O’Reilly’s  Tribute  to  the  Head-Center — 
Prison  Sufferings  of  Corporal  Chambers  —He  is  Set  Free  at  Last 
— O’Reilly  on  Denis  Kearney — “Moondyne,”  and  its  Critics — 
‘‘  Number  406.” 

THE  Catalpa  rescue  was  as  gallant  and  chivalrous  a 
deed  as  ever  loyal  knights  had  dared  for  suffering 
comrades.  There  was  not  a taint  of  sordid  or  selfish  pur- 
pose in  it,  from  beginning  to  end.  Any  nation  might  be 
proud  of  the  sons  who  had  so  boldly  conceived  and  so 
shrewdly  carried  it  to  success  ; but  the  world  has  no  laurels 
for  the  heroes  of  a defeated  cause.  Fenianism  in  Ireland 
had  been  a tragedy  : in  America  it  was  a wretched  farce. 
And  the  world  looking  at  the  stricken  gladiator,  turned 
its  thumbs  downward. 

Among  the  men  whom  disaster  had  crushed  and  sad- 
dened was  John  O’Mahony,  the  once  famous  Head-Center. 
He  came  of  revolutionary  stock,  his  ancestors  having  been 
concerned  in  every  rising  against  the  English  for  genera- 
tions. His  father  and  uncle  were  rebels  in  ’98  ; he  him- 
self had  to  fly  the  country  on  the  failure  of  the  insurrection 
of  ’48.  He  organized  the  Fenian  Brotherhood  in  1860. 
Although  hundreds  of  thousands  of  dollars  had  passed 
through  his  hands,  he  died  absolutely  poor,  on  the  7th  of 
February,  1877.  When  the  news  of  his  mortal  illness  in 
New  York  became  known,  O’Reilly  paid  this  just  tribute 
to  the  dying  enthusiast,  who  had  suffered  that  bitterest 
penalty  of  failure,  unjust  reproach  and  undeserved  dis- 
trust. 

John  O’Mahony  was  the  first  “ Head-Center  ” of  the  Fenian  move- 
ment in  America,  and  he  is  the  Head-Center  still  in  its  decadence.  He 
watched  beside  its  cradle  ; he  rose  with  it  in  its  sudden  strength  ; he 

174 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


175 


was  its  head  when  it  assumed  the  extraordinary  attitude  of  a foreign 
national  government  with  headquarters  in  New  York  ; its  copious 
stream  of  gold  passed  through  his  hands  ; the  scores  of  thousands  of  its 
builders,  looking  to  their  Center,  beheld  and  believed  in  the  rapt  face, 
the  solemn  figure,  and  the  streaming  hair  of  their  chosen  leader.  He 
was  not  merely  the  guide  or  fabricator  of  Fenianism.  He,  more  than 
any  man  alive  or  dead,  was  the  spirit  and  subtending  principle  of  the 
movement.  Its  single-heartedness  and  devotion  were  his,  no  matter 
whose  its  narrowness  and  shortcoming.  Stephens  was  the  “ Chief  Or- 
ganizer,” but  John  O’Mahony  was  the  “ Head-Center.”  His  whole  life 
and  aspirations  were  bound  up  in  one  word — Fenianism.  It  was  he  who 
christened  the  movement  with  this  title,  which  was  objectionable  to 
most  of  its  members.  Only  of  late  years,  when  they  saw  that  the  world 
knew  them  only  by  this  name,  did  they  accept  the  ancient  word  im- 
posed on  them  by  their  leader. 

The  fate  of  too  many  Irish  leaders  followed  O’Mahony.  Dissen- 
sions came,  and  doubts,  and  divisions  ; the  walls  crumbled,  the  floors 
shook,  and  the  antique  figure  descended  in  sorrow  from  its  place  in 
the  Moffat  mansion.  The  aim  of  the  movement  was  broken  ; other 
minds  than  O’Mahony’s  entered  in  and  were  averse  to  the  old  style. 
As  Young  Ireland  departed  from  O’Connell  and  followed  the  brilliant 
youths  of  the  Sword,  so  Fenianism  swerved  from  O’Mahony  and  half 
its  supporters  faced  toward  Canada.  Col.  William  R.  Roberts,  a natu- 
ral leader  of  men,  sanguine,  intellectual,  eloquent,  replaced  O’Mahony 
in  their  hearts.  Lower  and  lower  went  his  Fenianism,  till  the  only 
men  who  clung  to  it  in  a practical  way  were  a few  severe  or  simple 
natures,  those  who  stand  by  a solitary  idea  for  a lifetime,  whose  grasp 
and  hope  are  coeval  with  their  existence.  With  these  was  John 
O’Mahony.  The  gilded  palaces  were  gone  ; and  he  was  the  same 
antique  Fenian  still.  Years  went  by,  and  the  name  of  the  man  was 
rarely  mentioned  ; and  when  spoken,  even  in  assemblies  of  Irishmen, 
too  often  the  taint  of  suspicion  was  said  or  insinuated,  and  left  uncon- 
tradicted. The  money  sent  to  him  in  the  heyday  of  Fenianism  was 
remembered,  and  the  old  charge  was  made — he  had  duped  the  people. 

If  any  man  who  made  this  charge  had  met  John  O’Mahony  in  New 
York  for  the  past  seven  years,  he  would  have  begged  the  old  man’s 
pardon.  A tall,  gaunt  figure — the  mere  framework  of  a mighty  man  ; 
a large,  lusterless  face,  with  deep-sunken,  introverted  eyes  ; faded, 
lightish  hair,  worn  long  to  the  shoulders  ; an  overcoat  always  but- 
toned, as  if  to  hide  the  ravages  of  wear  and  tear  on  the  inner  garments  ; 
something  of  this,  and  something  too  of  gentleness  and  knightlihood, 
not  easily  described,  were  in  the  awkward  and  slow-moving  figure, 
with  melancholy  and  abstracted  gaze,  so  well  known  to  the  Irishmen 
of  New  York  as  John  O’Mahony,  the  Head-Center. 


176 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


Leaving  aside  the  faults  and  failures  of  Fenianism  for  the  sake  of 
its  honest  and  sacrificial  patriotism,  and  for  the  sake  of  poor  John 
O’Mahony,  whose  whole  life  was  a sacrifice,  we  say  that  this  man’s 
existence  and  work,  though  both  were  darkened  by  disappointment, 
were  on  the  whole  of  good  service  to  Ireland.  Unquestionably  the 
movement  of  1865-66  kindled  the  dead  wood  of  Irish  nationality. 
There  was  sore  need  of  a torch  and  a hand  to  fire  the  stubble.  There 
was  actual  danger  of  national  death  in  Ireland.  The  new  generation 
had  been  brought  up  under  a system  of  apparent  lenity,  and  educated 
in  “national  schools,”  cunningly  designed  to  make  Irish  children  West 
Britons.  It  may  be  that  no  patriotic  light  from  above,  no  open  politi- 
cal teaching  could  avert  the  danger.  Be  that  as  it  may,  the  light  came 
from  below — it  was  carried  in  secret  through  the  country,  from  town  to 
town,  by  James  Stephens.  The  peasant  and  mechanic  lit  their  lamps 
at  the  sacrificial  flame — and  carried  it  years  after,  in  loving  care, 
though  it  scorched  them  to  the  bone,  in  English  dungeons.  He  organ- 
ized Fenianism  on  this  continent  ; and  all  of  him  that  was  in  it  was 
pure  and  devoted  and  good. 

The  life  of  a good  and  pure  man — a life  held  in  his  hand  and  daily 
offered  up  with  pagan  simplicity  for  one  unselfish  object — for  his 
country — can  never  do  that  country  aught  but  good.  We  do  not  think 
he  was  a great  man  : we  never  thought  him  a wise  man  ; but  that  he 
was  a faithful  and  unflinching  son  and  servant  and  slave  to  Ireland,  no 
one  who  knew  him  will  deny  above  his  grave.  God  send  more  men  as 
lovable  and  unselfish  as  he  ! A gentleman  born  and  bred,  he  chose 
to  live  in  poverty,  putting  all  things  aside  that  might  interfere  with  his 
dream  of  a free  Ireland.  He  never  stained  his  white  hand  with  one 
unworthy  coin  from  the  treasury  of  Fenianism. 

O’Mahony  was  the  incarnation  of  his  cause,  sincere, 
honest,  unselfish,  and  uncalculating — not  wise  as  the  world 
judges,  but  wiser,  perhaps,  than  he  or  the  world  knew,  in 
cherishing  a dream : 

For  a dreamer  lives  forever, 

But  a toiler  dies  in  a day. 

The  body  of  the  dead  chieftain  was  borne  to  Ireland  and 
buried  in  Dublin,  being  followed  to  the  grave  by  thousands 
of  his  mourning  countrymen. 

There  were  other  Fenians  less  fortunate  than  the  dead 
O’Mahony,  in  that  their  graves  held  living  men.  Sergeant 
McCarthy  and  Corporal  Chambers,  O'Reilly’s  fellow- 
prisoners  in  Pentonville,  Chatham,  Portsmouth,  and  Dart- 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


177 


moor,  still  wore  the  felon’s  garb  and  chains.  O’Connor 
Power  moved  in  the  House  of  Commons,  on  June  5,  for  an 
inquiry  into  the  treatment  of  the  political  prisoners,  and 
presented  a communication  from  Michael  Davitt,  who  had 
then  been  in  prison  for  seven  years,  detailing  some  of  the 
hardships  which  himself  and  his  comrades  had  endured. 
McCarthy  was  then  within  a year  of  the  release  which  was 
to  come  to  him  only  through  the  clemency  of  death.  Davitt 
gave  a minute  account,  as  follows,  of  the  indignities  and 
cruelties  heaped  upon  poor  Chambers  : 

Corporal  Chambers,  for  five  months  during  which  he  was 

in  custody  before  Jrial,  was  treated  far  worse  than  a convict.  I make 
every  allowance  for  the  prejudice  of  the  members  of  the  court-martial 
in  daily  expectation  of  Fenian  disturbances,  but  having  found  him 
guilty  of  treason,  why  not  shoot  him  ? It  would  have  been  mercy 
itself  compared  with  sending  him  to  herd  with  the  common  thief  and 
murderer.  Perhaps  a living  example  is  required.  Therefore,  my  poor 
comrades,  the  military  men,  were  not  included  in  the  amnesty  five  and 
a half  years  ago,  though  the  leaders  of  Fenianism  and  men  who  had 
borne  arms  against  the  government  in  1867  were.  Well,  if  they  are 
intended  as  an  example  to  their  countrymen  in  the  army,  they  may 
also  serve  as  an  example  to  their  countrymen  out  of  the  army  when 
England  wants  Irish  soldiers  again.  “ Imprisonment  for  the  term  of 
his  natural  life,”  signed  by  her  most  gracious  Majesty.  So  ran  his 
sentence,  and  he  was  removed  from  the  Irish  jails,  where  there  is  some 
humanity,  to  the  English  jails,  where  humanity  and  the  Ten  Com- 
mandments are  set  aside  by  the  “Abstract  of  Prison  Rules.”  Those 
rules,  ambiguous  and  elastic  as  they  are,  are  stretched  and  tortured  in 
every  way,  in  order  to  inflict  extra  punishments  on  us,  or  deprive  us 
of  the  few  privileges  granted  to  the  ordinary  convict.  On  the  4th  of 
J une,  1868,  he  was  told  by  the  director  that  the  Secretary  of  State  had 
ordered  him  to  be  treated  with  greater  severity  than  an  ordinary 
prisoner.  This  order  is  still  in  force,  although  he  has  several  times 
petitioned  the  Secretary  of  State  about  the  injustice  of  it,  and  begged 
for  an  inquiry.  He  has  always  received  “no  grounds  ” for  an  answer. 
Nor  would  they  produce  him  before  the  Inquiry  Commission  in  1870. 
Nor  is  he  allowed  a visit,  although  he  applies  within  the  rules.  The 
last  quibble  is  that  he  must  give  proof  that  those  whom  he  applies  to 
see  him  are  blood  relatives.  Not  a word  about  proof  is  mentioned  to 
the  thieves  when  they  ask  for  a visit.  He  has  very  little  better  fortune 
with  his  letters.  Thus  every  possible  means  are  taken,  to  prevent  us 


178 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


from  exposing  the  horrors  of  the  last  ten  years.  The  prison  regulations 
say  that  the  authorities  are  to  instill  into  the  minds  of  convicts  “sound 
moral  and  religious  principles  ” — very  nice  to  read,  but  if  the  authorities 
have  neither  moral  nor  religious  principles  themselves,  how  then  ? In 
June  or  July,  1868,  Chambers  received  “no  grounds ” as  an  answer  to 
a petition  that  he  had  sent  to  the  Secretary  of  State,  begging  to  be 
allowed  to  attend  to  his  religious  obligations,  a privilege  of  which  he 
was  deprived  by  a “ moral  and  religious”  director  for  six  months.  At 
present  he  is  daily  driven  in  and  out  of  chapel  by  officers  brandishing 
bludgeons,  and  shouting  like  cattle-drovers  ; even  in  chapel  he  is  not 
quite  free  from  their  rudeness.  Dozens  of  times  those  officers  have 
stripped  him  naked  in  presence  of  thieves,  and  subjected  him  to  insults 
too  disgusting  to  describe.  He  is  :uade  to  open  his  clothes  five  times  a 
day  while  an  officer  feels  over  his  body.  He  has  been  several  times 
separated  from  other  political  prisoners— although  our  being  together 
was  within  the  rules — and  forced  to  associate  with  picked  ruffians.  He 
has  been  for  six  months  in  constant  contact  with  lunatics.  He  has  been 
forced  to  mop  out  filthy  dens  of  dirt  with  a small  piece  of  a rag,  to  carry 
a portable  water-closet  on  the  public  road  and  across  the  fields  for  the 
use  of  common  malefactors.  He  has  often  been  sick,  but,  except  on  a 
few  occasions,  was  not  taken  to  hospital.  On  one  occasion  he  was  sent 
to  the  dungeons  for  applying  for  relief  after  he  had  met  with  a severe 
hurt  by  falling  from  the  gangway  of  a building.  Last  year,  while  laid 
up  with  rheumatism,  they  kept  him  sixteen  days  on  ten  ounces  of  food 
daily,  two  months  on  half  diet,  and  then  put  him  out  of  hospital  far 
worse  than  when  he  was  taken  in.  He  is  weekly  forced  to  act  as  char- 
woman to  a lot  of  very  dirty  creatures.  He  has  had  punishment  diet 
(sixteen  ounces  of  bread  and  water),  penal  class  diet,  and  dungeons — 
dark,  cold,  wet,  and  dirty — in  abundance.  A smile,  a movement  of  the 
lips — aye,  even  a glance  of  the  eye — is  often  condemned  as  a crime  in 
Dartmoor.  We  have  been  frequently  insulted  by  thieves  and  even 
struck  by  them.  Chambers  has  been  held  by  a jailer  while  another  jailer 
was  ill-using  him.  Worthy  sons  of  worthy  sires,  who  shot  down  the 
poor  prisoners  of  war  here  ! Their  scattered  bones  were  collected  lately, 
and  “’Tis  good  to  die  for  one’s  country”  written  over  them.  When 
Chambers’s  sentence  of  imprisonment  for  the  term  of  his  natural  life  is 
brought  to  a close  by  unnatural  means,  the  jailers  will  write  “ No.  36, 
Felon  Chambers,”  over  him.  No  fine  epitaph  shall  mark  his  murdered 
bones.  Nevertheless,  the  only  difference  between  the  French  and 
American  prisoners  and  him  is  that  while  they  were  shot  down,  he  will 
be  slowly  tortured  to  death. 


In  December  of  this  year  O’Reilly  received  a “letter” 
from  Chambers,  i.e.y  a printed  document  in  which  the 


179 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 

prisoner  had  been  allowed  to  write  exactly  four  words,  or 
five,  if  we  include  the  word  “ friend.” 

The  following  is  the  letter,  with  the  prisoner’s  part  of 
the  composition  italicized : 

Woking  Prison,  England,  November  29,  1877. 

Dear  Friend.  I was  transferred  from  Dartmoor  on  the  26th  inst., 
and  am  now  in  this  prison  ; I am  in  worse  health,  and  if  I do  not  for- 
feit the  privilege  I shall  be  allowed  to  write  a longer  letter  afterward, 
and  then  receive  one  from  you  in  reply. 

T.  Chambers. 

This  is  the  answering  message  of  cheer  sent  in  the  happy 
Christmas  time,  and  gratefully  preserved  by  the  receiver  as 
long  as  he  lived.  When  both  sender  and  receiver  had 
passed  away,  a loyal  comrade,  Mr.  James  Wrenn,  to  whom 
Chambers  had  bequeathed  it,  brought  me  the  paper.  It 
was  well  worn  with  many  readings,  for  this  terrible  “rebel,” 
who  had  been  so  severely  punished,  was  the  simplest  and 
kindliest  of  men,  and  loved  O’  Reilly  with  the  trustful  love 
of  a dog  or  a child  : 

Boston,  U.  S.  A.,  December  22,  1877. 

John  Boyle  O'Reilly 
to 

Corporal  Thomas  Chambers , Sixty-First  Foot;  in  prison. 

My  Dear  Old  Friend  : I cannot  go  to  my  home  to-night  without 
writing  to  you  and  actually  saying  the  words,  “ May  you  have  a happy 
Christmas,  dear  boy,”  as  happy  as  you  may  have  in  your  sad  surround- 
ings. 

_ Your  last  letter  was  more  a grief  to  me  than  a pleasure.  I see  your 
familiar  hand  in  only  four  hearty  words.  I am  glad,  however,  that 
the  prison  authorities  allowed  you  to  have  my  letter.  I feared  that  it 
would  go  the  unknown  road  of  many  previous  ones. 

Eleven  years  ago — and  what  a long  lifetime  it  seems — we  were  both 
young  and  enthusiastic  boys,  and  I am  impressed  to-day,  somehow, 
with  the  vast  changes  worked  on  men  by  time  ; you  in  your  prison,  and 
I in  the  world,  have  both  equally  changed.  When  ten  more  years 
have  passed  we  shall  both  look  back  with  pleasure — yes,  as  sure  as  you 
live,  old  friend — at  the  dark  shadow.  * When  your  time  comes,  as  it 


*The  ten  years  had  become  eleven  when  O’Reilly  closed  the  dead  eyes  of 
the  dear  comrade,  whom  he  was  soon  to  follow. 


180 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


surely  will  before  long,  the  revulsion  of  feeling  will  in  itself-  be  so  deep 
a joy  that  whole  years  of  suffering  will  be  swallowed  up. 

I grieve  to  hear  of  your  declining  health.  Dear  Tom,  a stout  heart 
keeps  a man  healthy.  Bear  up  ; remember  you  have  a hearty  welcome 
in  the  home  of  one  friend,  I might  say  of  very  many,— and  now,  at  the 
eleventh  hour,  do  not  despond  nor  sink.  You  must  come  to  us,  rugged 
and  strong;  come  a boy,  to  begin  the  world  anew,  and  to  work  out 
your  manly  way  in  the  New  World. 

I know  that  if  I were  to  write  news  it  would  break  the  prison  rules 
and  nullify  my  letter,  and  I must  confine  myself  to  mere  words,  but 
believe  me,  there  is  a heart  behind  every  sentence. 

I do  not  believe  you  will  be  long  a prisoner,  but,  long  or  short,  hus- 
band your  health  for  the  time  of  delivery.  When  you  write  me,  I 
trust  in  God  you  will  tell  me  you  are  gaining  strength.  I wish  I might 
write  you  a newspaper  full. 

Sincerely  yours, 

J.  B.  O’Reilly. 

578  Washington  Street,  Boston,  U.  S.  A. 

This  letter  was  indorsed  : 

To  the  Governor  of  Woking  Prison : 

Sir  : I respectfully  beg  that  this  letter  be  handed  to  the  person  to 
whom  it  is  addressed.  His  health  may  be  affected  by  despondency 
which  a friendly  message  may  arrest  or  dispel.  I have  tried  to  avoid 
breaking  your  rules  or  discipline. 

Respectfully, 

J.  B.  O’Reilly. 

On  the  27th  of  August,  1877,  Mr.  John  O’ Kane,  a schol- 
arly gentleman  who  had  been  assistant  editor  of  the  Pilot 
for  some  years,  died  of  pneumonia,  at  the  age  of  forty  years. 
He  left  one  son,  Daniel  P.  O’ Kane,  whom  Mr.  O’Reilly  took 
into  the  office  and  made  his  confidential  clerk.  “ Dan  ” — 
it  seems  impossible  to  speak  of  him  save  by  the  familiar 
name  by  which  he  was  known  and  loved — was  an  amiable, 
kindly  youth,  warmly  devoted  to  his  chief  and  dearly  loved 
in  return.  The  fatal  seeds  of  consumption  were  in  his  sys- 
tem, and  developed  such  alarming  symptoms  in  the  year 
1890  that  he  was  forced  to  give  up  his  work  on  the  Pilot 
and  go  to  the  Boston  City  Hospital  for  treatment.  His  de- 
clining health  was  the  cause  of  heartfelt  grief  to  O’Reilly. 
While  the  latter  was  away  on  his  lecturing  tour  on  the 


181 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 

Pacific  Coast,  he  telegraphed  to  the  writer  from  San  Fran- 
cisco for  news  of  the  sick  lad.  It  was  one  of  those  little 
things  which,  somehow,  find  lodgment  only  in  big  hearts. 
Dan  survived  his  chief  but  one  week  ; the  strong,  lusty  man 
died,  after  all,  before  his  frail  'protege . 

In  this  year,  1877,  O’  Reilly  was  called  upon  to  write  an 
obituary  notice  of  another  great  journalist,  Samuel  Bowles, 
founder  and  editor  of  the  Springfield  Republican . His 
eulogy  of  the  dead  editor  may  be  fitly  applied  to  himself, 
even  as  his  warning  against  overwork  is  sadly  prophetic  of 
his  own  fate : 

Mr.  Bowles  was  a bora  editor — a comprehender  of  facts,  a compeller 
of  circumstances.  Mr.  Bowles  had  the  clearest  perception  of  what  was 
of  immediate  interest ; and  his  readers  were  spared  the  trouble  of  sifting* 
the  chaff  to  find  the  grain  of  daily  wheat.  He  trained  his  young  men 
so  admirably  that  his  whole  paper  was  a mosaic  of  equal  excellence, 
every  paragraph  having  the  mint-stamp  of  journalism.  He  dies  of  the 
great  American  disease, — overwork.  The  brain  had  too  much  to  do; 
like  a patient  beast  of  burden  it  obeyed  the  untiring  will,  laboriously 
breasting  the  collar,  till  at  last  the  tension  grew  rigid;  the  ceaseless 
pressure  had  worn  the  line — something  snapped — the  strained  attention 
lost  its  aim — the  whole  organism  collapsed — the  toil  was  done  forever— 
the  editor  was  stricken  down  with  paralysis  of  the  brain ! Is  there  a les- 
son in  this  story?  Who  heeds?  Pshaw!  there  is  no  time  to  moralize. 
Slacken  the  traces  for  a minute,  till  the  funeral  passes — then  to  work 
again.  Time  is  very  short.  Strong  men  love  vigorous  labor.  And 
wives  and  children, — ah,  well ! — they  must  fall  back  on  the  insurance 
companies. 

Writing  in  the  last  month  of  the  year  1890,  it  is  not  hard 
to  understand  the  pain  and  chagrin  with  which  Irish  patri- 
ots, thirteen  years  ago,  confessed  the  utter  failure  of  Isaac 
Butt’s  parliamentary  efforts  to  secure  Home  Rule  for  his 
country.  But  the  inefficient  leader  was  supplanted  and  a 
new  one  chosen,  and  Ireland— God  help  her ! — saw  another 
dawn  breaking  in  the  east.  Mr.  Butt  was  hopelessly  ami- 
able : 

“ Whenever  a motion  trenching  on  Irish  nationality  was 
brought  forward,”  wrote  O’Reilly,  “it  was  beaten  with 
nothing  short  of  contumely.  Still  not  a severe  word  from 


182 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’kEILLY. 


Mr.  Butt.  As  soon  as  one  bill  was  squelched,  he  smilingly 
sat  down  to  draw  up  another,  and  courteously  awaited  its 
extinction.  It  was  plain  that  such  a character  was  badly 
suited  for  his  place ; but  the  country  waited  and  trusted 
that  ‘ at  the  right  moment  ’ their  chosen  leader  would 
rise  up  in  virtuous  indignation,  and  for  the  sake  of  Ire- 
land’s  very  manhood  utter  a statesman’s  reproof  and  pro- 
test. 

“ There  is  no  such  mettle  in  Isaac  Butt,  we  are  sorry  to 
believe.  He  has  been  tried  and  found  wanting.  The  coun- 
try is  disappointed  and  sick  of  him.  He  has  been  deposed 

and  supplanted  by  a younger  and  bolder  man The 

actual  policy  of  the  new  leader  it  is  not  easy  to  foreshadow  ; 
but  it  will  doubtless  be  a vigorous  one.  The  young  blood 
of  Ireland  will  assuredly  be  with  him,  and  the  old  blood 
that  has  not  stagnated.  The  peace  policy  has  been  misun- 
derstood by  Irish  leaders  like  Butt.  To  these  it  means 
peace  at  any  price — peace  in  legislative  action  as  well  as  in 
arms.  They  do  not  see  that  peace  everywhere  means  decay. 
If  Ireland  does  not  fight  in  the  field,  she  must  fight  all  the 
harder  in  the  British  Parliament.  She  has  never  received 
anything  from  England  for  the  humble  asking.  These 
young  and  strong  men,  disgusted  with  the  decent  humility 
of  Isaac  Butt  when  his  face  was  slapped  and  his  country 
sneered  at,  have  adopted  a more  virile  course.  They  know 
the  lesson  of  Irish  history  : The  best  prophet  of  the  Future 
is  the  Past.” 

Never  did  Ireland  need  the  comfort  of  a prophet  of  good 
more  sorely  than  she  does  to-day. 

On  January  5,  1878,  a special  cable  dispatch  an- 
nounced that  three  of  the  Irish  political  prisoners,  viz., 
McCarthy,  Chambers,  and  O’Brien,  who  had  been  confined 
since  1866,  were  set  at  liberty.  O’  Reilly  wrote  for  this  oc- 
casion his  poem  4 4 Released : ’ ’ 

Haggard  and  broken  and  seared  with  pain, 

They  seek  the  remembered  friends  and  places ; 

Men  shuddering  turn,  and  gaze  again 
At  the  deep-drawn  lines  on  their  altered  faces. 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES.  183 

She  offers  a bribe — Ah,  God  above ! 

Behold  the  price  of  the  desecration  : 

The  hearts  she  has  tortured  for  Irish  love 
She  brings  as  a bribe  to  the  Irish  nation ! 

We  know  her — our  Sister ! Come  on  the  storm ! 

God  send  it  soon  and  sudden  upon  her : 

The  race  she  has  scattered  and  sought  to  deform 
Shall  laugh  as  she  drinks  the  black  dishonor. 

To  his  fellow-soldier  and  friend,  Corporal  Chambers,  he 
sent  this  wise  and  kindly  letter  of  welcome  to  freedom  : 

Boston,  U.  S.  A.,  February  6,  1878. 

Dear  Chambers  : 

I shall  not  weary  you  with  many  words  just  now.  Welcome,  my 
dear,  dear  old  fellow,  welcome  a thousand  times.  You  mention  a long 
letter  you  wrote  me  in  November;  I never  received  it,  or  any  other 
real  letter  from  you  during  the  eight  years  that  I have  written  to  you. 
When  you  have  time  to  sit  down  and  write  me  at  length,  do  so. 

McCarthy’s  death  was  a great  shock  to  me ; God  rest  the  poor  mur- 
dered old  fellow. 

I sent  you  a book  the  other  day ; I shall  publish  another  in  a month 
or  two  and  shall  send  that  also.  Tell  me  precisely  how  you  are  situated 
and  what  you  propose  doing. 

I beg  of  you  to  avoid  the  kindly-meant  demonstrations  in  your  honor, 
either  at  home  or  here,  should  you  come  here.  It  is  frothy  excitement ; 
there  is  nothing  of  it  left  after  a few  weeks.  It  has  a good  moral  effect, 
perhaps;  but  the  same  effect  can  be  better  secured  in  another  way. 
You  will  have  to  look  around  now  for  the  means  of  earning  a good 
livelihood.  Pardon  my  prosaic  suggestions,  Tom,  but  I have  seen  so 
many  men  lionized  that  I have  learned  to  fear  the  effect  on  them  and 
to  regret  it  on  the  behalf  of  those  who  make  the  noise. 

Should  you'decide  to  come  to  America,  come  straight  to  me,  and  I 
will  put  a stouter  chain  on  you  than  ever  you  saw  in  Dartmoor. 

O’Reilly  had  written  a noble  poem  for  the  O’Connell 
Centenary  in  the  year  1875.  The  hundredth  birthday  of 
another,  and  even  more  beloved,  because  more  unfortunate, 
Irish  patriot,  Robert  Emmet,  was  celebrated  on  March  4, 
1878.  The  exercises  at  Tremont  Temple,  Boston,  consisted 
of  an  oration  by  Mr.  Anthony  A.  Griffin,  of  New  York,  and 
a poem,  “The  Patriot’s  Grave,”  by  John  Boyle  O’Reilly, 


184 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


who  succeeded  in  drawing  an  original  thought  from  the 
touching,  but  well-quoted,  demand  of  Emmet,  ‘‘Let  no 
man  write  my  epitaph.” 

Tear  down  the  crape  from  the  column ! Let  the  shaft  stand 
white  and  fair ! 

Be  silent  the  wailing  music — there  is  no  death  in  the  air! 

We  come  not  in  plaint  or  sorrow — no  tears  may  dim  our  sight: 

We  dare  not  weep  o’er  the  epitaph  we  have  not  dared  to  write. 
******* 

He  teaches  the  secret  of  manhood — the  watchword  of  those 
who  aspire — 

That  men  must  follow  freedom  though  it  lead  through  blood 
and  fire ; 

That  sacrifice  is  the  bitter  draught  which  freemen  still  must 
quaff — 

That  every  patriotic  life  is  the  patriot’s  epitaph. 

The  lesson  of  Emmet’s  life,  as  read  by  O’ Reilly,  who 
much  resembled  him,  was  this  : 

A life  such  as  his  is  never  wasted.  Often  it  is  the  price  that  is  paid 
for  justice.  Despots  never  concede  a right  until  it  is  forced  from  them. 
All  that  Ireland  has  ever  gained  was  the  fruit  of  effort.  England  has 
given  nothing  voluntarily.  She  resisted  Catholic  emancipation  till 
Wellington  saw  that  to  refuse  longer  would  be  to  invite  revolution. 
The  brilliant  Forty-eight  movement  prepared  the  way  for  further  con- 
cessions. Fenianism  produced  Disestablishment  and  Land  Reform. 
Not  one  single  step  has  Ireland  taken  toward  enlarged  rights  without 
forcing  her  way.  Not  a single  step  has  she  been  allowed  to  take  till 
England  had  fully  realized  the  danger  of  resisting.  Generosity  is  a vir- 
tue that  England  has  never  known,  and  one  for  which  the  world  will 
never  make  the  mistake  of  giving  her  credit.  Ireland  has  received 
nothing  from  her  till  she  was  compelled  to  give  it.  To  the  example  of 
Emmet  much  of  what  has  been  gained  is  due. 

In  tbe  summer  of  this-  year,  the  laboring  people  of 
America  were  stirred  by  a crusade  against  capital,  led  by  an 
Irish- American,  Dennis  Kearney  of  San  Francisco,  a noisy 
agitator,  who  had  more  than  a kernel  of  right  to  his  bushel 
of  chaff,  but  his  strength  lay  in  denunciation,  his  weakness 
in  lack  of  constructive  ability.  When  he  came  to  Boston 
to  harangue  the  people,  some  short-sighted  conservatives 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


185 


wished  to  have  him  silenced.  Wiser  counsels  prevailed. 
He  was  allowed  full  freedom  of  speech  and  he  talked  him- 
self out.  O’Reilly,  who  refused  no  man  a hearing,  de- 
manded only  a coherent  formulation  of  his  principles  by 
Kearney.  In  a cogent  editorial  of  August  17,  he  wrote  : 

Because  the  Pilot  is  a workingman’s  paper,  because  eighty  per  cent, 
of  our  readers  are  in  the  truest  sense  “honest,  horny-fisted  sons  of 
toil,”  we  feel  bound  to  ask  Dennis  Kearney  two  questions  : First 
Does  he  believe  that  profanity  and  abuse  are  argument  ? Second. 
Where  are  the  facts  or  issues  upon  which  he  came  to  the  East  to  agitate 
the  workingmen  ? 

The  workingmen  of  this  country  need  wise  leaders.  There  are  half 
a score  of  burning  questions  for  their  consideration  and  action.  Has 
Dennis  Kearney  any  message  to  deliver  on  any  of  these  subjects  ? The 
workingmen  are  all  divided  on  their  issues.  In  another  column  we 
give  sixty  remedies  proposed  by  workingmen  to  the  Hewitt  Committee, 
ranging  all  the  way  from  the  abolition  of  labor  and  property  to  the 
abolition  of  money  and  government.  On  which  of  these,  or  on  what 
else  are  the  workingmen  to  agree  ? 

Let  us  say  to  Dennis  Kearney  that  he  had,  and  has  still,  if  he  have 
brain  and  principle,  a rare  and  splendid  opportunity.  There  is  no 
grander  fame  than  that  of  a trusted  leader  of  workmen.  This  is  the 
country  for  the  production  of  such  leaders.  Labor  is  free,  and  respected, 
and  enfranchised.  Turn  to  the  study,  man,  before  it  is  too  late.  Seize 
the  deep  wishes  and  hopes;  take  hold  of  the  strong  lines;  be  wise,  and 
powerful,  and  gentle.  Be  faithful,  and  able  to  lead  the  masses  to  better 
laws  and  greater  happiness.  Be  Rienzi,  if  you  can ; be  Masaniello,  if  you 
fail ; but  for  the  honor  of  toil,  be  even  a decent  Wat  Tyler  or  Jack  Cade. 

Remember,  Kearney,  it  is  no  enemy  who  speaks.  Every  word  we 
say  here  will  reach  the  eyes  or  ears  of  a million  workingmen. 

In  their  name,  for  their  interests,  we  condemn  your  intemperate 
course.  You  commit  a crime  when  your  furious  and  blind  utterances 
hold  up  the  cause  of  Labor  to  derision. 

On  the  30th  of  November,  1878,  O’Reilly  began  a serial 
story  in  the  Pilot,  entitled  “ Moondyne  Joe,”  the  latter  part 
of  the  name  being  dropped  after  the  issue  of  the  following 
February  1.  It  was  published  in  book  form,  under  its  new 
title,  by  Roberts  Bros.,  in  1880,  and  has  reached  twelve 
editions.  The  book,  “ Dedicated  to  all  who  are  in  prison,” 
since  so  widely  read  and  generally  admired,  evoked  on  its 
appearance  some  remarkably  harsh  criticisms  from  ultra 


186 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


Catholics,  who  objected  to  what  they  called  its  pagan  spirit. 
It  was  not  enough  that  the  author  had  imbued  his  hero 
with  the  principles  of  Catholic  Christianity,  his  critics  were 
dissatisfied  because  the  artist  had  failed  to  label  his  work 
in  large  letters.  They  were  unquestionably  sincere,  and 
unquestionably  narrow  in  their  judgment.  . No  better 
answer  to  such  strictures  could  be  given  than  this  of  the 
author  himself,  replying  to  the  question  : 

IS  “ MOONDYNE  ” A BAD  BOOK  ? 

Mr.  J.  A.  McMaster,  editor  of  the  New  York  Freeman's  Journal , 
says  that  when  he  had  read  “ Moondyne  ” he  threw  it  down,  saying  to 
one  that  admired  the  author,  and  had  been  charmed  with  the  story  : 
“That  is  a bad  book!”  “Why?”  cried  the  guileless  one,  “was  it 
wrong  for  me  to  have  read  it?  ” “ Oh,  not  a bit ! It  is  a weird  romance 
of  impossible  characters,  and  set  off  with  keen  and  quick  perception  of 
nature.  It  is  faultless  in  regard  to  those  sickly,  twaddling  love  passages 
that  offend  in  plenty  of  stories  passed  off  as  Catholic.  The  poison  in 
this  book  finds  nothing  in  you  to  take  hold  of,  because  you  do  not 
understand  it.  It  is  worse  than  pagan.  Under  the  glamour  borrowed 
from  the  results  of  Christian  civilization,  it  breathes  out  principles  that 
are  not  un-Christian  only,  but  anti-Christian ! ” 

This  is  a grave  charge  for  one  Catholic  editor  to  make  against 
another ; but  it  loses  in  effect  when  we  remember  that  he  who  makes  it 
is  given  to  such  startling  accusations,  and  has  from  time  to  time 
hurled  condemnation  on  bishops,  priests,  and  laymen,  indiscriminately, 
and  has  himself  received  numerous  serious  reproofs  for  his  unruly  and 
aggressive  disposition.  We  admire  and  respect  Mr.  McMaster’s  faith 
and  intention ; but  we  have  very  little  regard  for  his  perception,  judg- 
ment, and  temper.  He  speaks  to  the  author  of  “ Moondyne”  as  to  a 
friend,  and  he  pays  him  the  respect  of  saying  that  he  handles  him 
roughly  because  he  knows  he  can  bear  it.  But  the  proof  of  friendship 
is  the  deed,  not  the  word.  Mr.  McMaster  refers  to  the  serpent  in  Eden 
(which,  by  the  way,  he  boldly  says  was  not  a serpent,  “as  vulgar 
stories  tell  ”),  saying  : 

“He  deluded  our  poor  dear  old  foolish  grandmother  Eve — and 
terribly  she  did  penance  for  it.  But  he  deluded  her,— and  his  cry  was 
precisely  that  of  Boyle  O’Reilly’s  ‘Moondyne,’  ‘Away  with  Law! 
Liberty ! Liberty  of  the  colt  of  the  wild  ass ! ’ ‘ Mankind ! Yes,  Man- 
kind is  older  than  the  Birth  of  Jesus  Christ!  If  Jesus  Christ  will  be- 
come a republican  we  will  adopt  him  ! If  not — ’ ” 

One  would  think,  on  reading  these  shocking  words,  that  they  were 
from  Boyle  O’Reilly’s  book  ; that  this  was  actually  the  cry  of  ‘ ‘ Moon- 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


187 


dyne,”  and  the  dreadful  spirit  of  the  work.  It  is  not  so;  God  forbid! 
Those  words  are  wholly  McMaster’s,  evolved  from  the  phantasy  of  an 
excited  brain  and  a hatred  of  republicanism,  for  he  believes  firmly  that 
republicanism  is  anti-Christian  and  damnable.  Here  are  Moondyne’s 
words  (page  119,  first  edition),  which  Mr.  McMaster  has  so  horribly- 
misrepresented  : 

“ Society  could  have  a better  existence  with  better  laws.  At  present 
the  laws  of  civilization,  especially  of  England,  are  based  on  and  framed 

by  Property Human  laws  should  be  founded  on  God’s  law  and 

human  right,  and  not  on  the  narrow  interests  of  land  and  gold.” 

These  are  widely  different  words  from  those  used  by  McMaster,  and 
have  a wholly  different  meaning.  On  what  can  good  law  be  ultimately 
founded,  if  not  on  ‘ ‘ God’s  law  and  human  right  ? ” 

Hasty  and  harsh  and  unjust  judgment  is  not  proof  of  good  will;  yet 
we  are  willing  to  believe  that  Mr.  McMaster  means  every  friendly  word 
he  has  written.  That  “ Moondyne  ” should  be  mistaken  fora  pagan 
does  not  seem  to  be  possible  ; but  from  the  testimony  of  friendly  critics 
we  are  willing  to  conclude  that  his  silence  on  the  matter  of  creed  may 
be  misconstrued.  It  was  not  the  author’s  intention  that  ‘ ‘ Moondyne  ” 
should  be  so  mistaken  : it  was  directly  opposite  to  his  intention.  To 
demand  of  a Catholic  author  that  his  chief  character  shall  be  a Catholic 
is  absurd.  A novelist  must  study  types  as  they  exist.  The  author  of 
“ Moondyne  ” made  a study  of  a man  who  might  be  typical  of  the  Penal 
Colony,  evolved  by  the  pressure  of  unjust  laws  on  erring  but  human 
lives.  To  have  put  a Catholic  or  Protestant  preacher  in  the  position 
might  have  pleased  some ; but  he  saw  fit  to  put  the  man  there  who 
actually  belonged  to  the  place.  The  leading  traits  of  “ Moondyne” 
were  mainly  studied  from  the  life.  The  author  had  before  him  a strong, 
virtuous,  silent  man,  cognizant  of  all  the  wrongs  of  the  law,  sympa- 
thetic with  all  the  suffering,  saying  nothing,  but  doing , so  far  as  his 
power  enabled  him,  the  full  duty  of  a wise,  honest,  and  Christian  man. 
He  saw  the  injustice  of  existing  laws,  and  he  foretold  the  day  when  all 
human  codes  should  be  tested,  not  by  the  needs  of  a government,  but 
by  the  expressed  and  immutable  law  of  God. 

There  is  not,  could  not  be,  an  anti-Christian  word  in  “ Moondyne.” 
If  there  were,  it  should  not  stand  one  moment.  The  words  put  up  and 
knocked  down  by  Mr.  McMaster  are  not  in  “Moondyne.”  They  are 
his  own. 

Mr.  McMaster  calls  on  the  author  of  “Moondyne”  to  submit  to 
authority.  It  is  impertinent  to  speak  so  to  one  who  has  not  rebelled 
against  authority,  who  respects  the  law  and  the  author  as  profoundly 
as  the  editor  of  the  Freeman.  We  must  remind  Mr.  McMaster,  in  a 
friendly  but  firm  way,  that  he  is  not  “ authority,”  nor  must  all  who 
dare  to  write  a book  submit  to  him  for  approval. 


188 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


The  book  which  had  provoked  criticism  on  account  of 
imaginary  theological  defects  might  well  have  been  expected 
to  show  faults  of  a literary  character ; for  it  was  composed 
from  week  to  week  to  meet  the  printer’s  demand  for  copy. 
Oftentimes  the  copy  was  written  while  the  press  was  wait- 
ing. Literary  polish  was  scarcely  to  be  looked  for  under 
such  circumstances,  and  yet  the  story  abounds  with  pas- 
sages of  beauty  and  strength.  The  narrative  flows  smoothly, 
and  the  evolution  of  character  is  equally  worked  out  from 
beginning  to  end. 

In  “ Moondyne,”  O’Reilly  revealed  his  inner  self  as  the 
dreamer  of  an  ideal  social  condition  in  which  Kindness  was 
to  be  the  only  ruler.  It  is  easy  to  understand  how  only  one 
who  had  come  through  the  ordeal  of  convict  life  unscathed 
could  have  built  the  air-castle  of  reform  in  which  the  ex- 
convict “Moondyne,”  or  “ Wyville,”  should  be  an  all- 
powerful  but  benignant  autocrat.  O’  Reilly,  witnessing  the 
harsh  yet  ineffectual  prison  discipline  when  the  mutinous 
“ Chains”  were  quelled  into  temporary  submission  at  the 
cannon’s  mouth,  must  have  often  let  his  boyish  fancy  carry 
him  to  a time  when,  invested  with  full  power,  he  should  be 
able  to  dismiss  the  soldiers  and  surprise  the  convicts  as  his 
own  comptroller-general  does.  Mr.  Wyville  confronts  the 
convicts  and  calls  out  the  names  of  twelve  men  to  whom,  as 
a reward  for  previous  good  conduct,  he  grants  full  pardon. 
To  others  he  bears  the  glad  news  of  material  reductions  in 
their  sentences.  Then  addressing  the  astonished  throng, 
he  says : 

“ Men  ! we  have  heard  the  last  sound  of  mutiny  in  the  Colony.” 

Mr.  Wyville’s  voice  thrilled  the  convicts  like  deep-sounded  music  ; 
they  looked  at  him  with  awe-struck  faces.  Every  heart  was  filled  with 
the  conviction  that  he  was  their  friend ; that  it  was  well  to  listen  to 
him  and  obey  him. 

“ From  this  day,  every  man  is  earning  his  freedom,  and  an  interest 
in  this  Colony.  Your  rights  are  written  down,  and  you  shall  know 
them.  You  must  regard  the  rights  of  others  as  yours  shall  be  regarded. 
This  law  trusts  to  your  manhood,  and  offers  you  a reward  for  your 
labor ; let  every  man  be  heedful  that  it  is  not  disgraced  nor  weakened 
by  unmanly  conduct.  See  to  it,  each  for  himself,  and  each  helping  his 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


189 


fellow,  that  you  return  as  speedily  as  you  may  to  the  freedom  and  inde- 
pendence which  this  Colony  offers  you.” 

Among  the  warders,  opposition  disappeared  the  moment  the  gold 
band  of  the  deputy’s  cap  was  seen  under  the  Comptroller’s  foot. 
Among  the  convicts,  disorder  hid  its  wild  head  as  soon  as  they  realized 
that  the  blind  system  of  work  without  reward  had  been  replaced  by  one 
that  made  every  day  count  for  a hope  not  only  of  liberty,  but  inde- 
pendence. 

In  a word,  from  that  day  the  Colony  "ceased  to  be  stagnant  and 
began  to  progress. 

Quite  unconsciously  lie  invested  “ Moondyne,”  not  only 
with  his  own  mental  characteristics,  but  even  with  his  phys- 
ical features  : 

In  strength  and  proportion  of  body  the  man  was  magnificent — a 
model  for  a gladiator.  He  was  of  middle  height,  young,  but  so  stern 
and  massively  featured,  and  so  browned  and  beaten  by  exposure,  it  was 
hard  to  determine  his  age.  A large,  finely-shaped  head,  with  crisp, 
black  hair  and  beard,  a broad,  square  forehead,  and  an  air  of  power  and 
self-command, — this  was  the  prisoner, — this  was  Moondyne  Joe. 

Moondyne,  masquerading  later  on  as  Mr.Wyville,  is  still 
O’  Reilly,  in  person  and  dress  : 

He  was  dressed  in  such  a way  that  one  would  say  he  never  could  be 
dressed  otherwise.  Dress  was  forgotten  in  the  man.  But  he  wore  a 
short  walking  or  shooting  coat,  of  strong,  dark  cloth.  The  strength 
and  roughness  of  the  cloth  were  seen,  rather  than  the  style,  for  it 
seemed  appropriate  that  so  strangely  powerful  a figure  should  be 
strongly  clad. 

His  face  was  bronzed  to  the  darkness  of  a Greek’s.  His  voice,  as  he 
spoke  on  entering  the  room,  came  easily  from  his  lips,  yet  with  a deep 
resonance  that  was  pleasant  to  hear,  suggesting  a possible  tenderness 
or  terror  that  would  shake  the  soul.  It  was  a voice  in  absolutely  per- 
fect accord  with  the  striking  face  and  physique. 

Finally,  Moondyne’ s prison  number  was  “406,”  a num- 
ber to  which  two  or  three  odd  coincidences  had  given  a certain 
half-superstitious  significance.  I think  it  was  the  number 
borne  by  the  author  in  one  of  his  several  prisons,  but  of 
this  I am  not  sure.  O’  Reilly  spoke  of  it  more  than  once. 
It  was  the  number  of  the  room  assigned  him  in  the  first 
hotel  at  which  he  stopped  in  America.  Ten  years  later,  on 


190 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


visiting  New  York,  he  was  given  a room,  with  the  same 
number,  in  another  hotel. 

In  his  scrap  book,  written  on  a sheet  of  hotel  note  paper, 
under  the  date  of  February  24,  1880,  is  an  unfinished  poem, 
in  blank  verse,  entitled  : 

“406.” 

I do  not  know  the  meaning  of  the  sign, 

But  bend  before  its  power,  as  a reed  bends 
When  the  black  tornado  fills  the  valley  to  the  lips. 

Three  times  in  twenty  years  its  shape  has  come 
In  lines  of  fire  on  the  black  veil  of  mystery  ; 

At  first,  tho’  strange,  it  seemed  familiar, 

And  lingered  on  the  mind  as  if  at  rest  ; 

The  second  time  it  flashed  a thrill  came,  too, 

For  supernature  spoke,  or  tried  to  speak  ; 

The  third  time,  like  a blow  upon  the  eyes, 

It  stood  before  me,  as  a page  might  say  : 

“ Read,  read, — and  do  not  call  for  other  warning.” 

I do  not  know, — O Mystery,  the  word 

Is  lost  on  senses  too  impure.  I stand 

And  shrink  subdued  before  the  voice  that  speaks, 

And  know  not  that  its  word  is  light  or  gloom. 

John  Boyle  O’Reilly. 

The  fancy  seems  to  have  been  nothing  more  than  a fancy 
born  of  three  singular  coincidences.  Most  men  of  vivid 
imagination  are  apt  to  look  for  presentiments  in  coinci- 
dences, and  to  laugh  with  satisfaction,  as  he  did,  when  the 
foreboding  proved  to  be  false. 


CHAPTER  XI. 


Elected  President  of  the  Papyrus  Club,  and  also  of  the  Boston  Press 
Club — Interesting  Addresses  Delivered  before  Both— Speech  at  the 
Moore  Centenary — Letter  to  the  Papyrus  Club — His  Home  at 
Hull — Visit  of  Parnell  to  America — Founding  of  the  St.  Botolph 
Club  and  the  “ Cribb  Club” — Justin  McCarthy  Describes  the 
Poet-athlete— Russell  Sullivan’s  “ Here  and  Hereafter.” 

O’REILLY  had  the  distinction  of  holding  the  office  of 
president  in  two  organizations  during  the  year  1879, 
the  Papyrus  Club  and  the  Boston  Press  Club  ; he  was 
elected  to  the  former  on  the  4th  of  January.  In  his  inau- 
gural address  he  said  : 

To  be  made  the  president  of  this  club  would  be  an  honor  to  any  lit- 
erary man  in  the  country.  The  charm  of  the  Papyrus  is  that  it  is 
essentially  an  ideal  club.  The  charm  of  the  club  to  its  members  will 
be  proportionate  to  our  enthusiasm  to  work  for  this  ideal  ; this  is  our 
pride.  Dining,  wining,  the  patronage  of  millionaires  and  politicians, 
the  gorgeous  service  and  elaborate  style,  are  as  vapor  and  mud  beside 
the  beauty  of  standing  up  for  our  independent,  brotherly,  anti-shoddy, 
aesthetic,  and  ideal  Papyrus.  Better  for  us  the  expression  of  a single 
thought,  or  the  admiration  of  a high  ideal,  than  all  the  gold-plated 
enjoyment  of  other  orders  of  clubs. 

Two  years  before,  at  the  dinner  of  the  Papyrus,  on  Feb- 
ruary 8,  Mr.  William  A.  Hovey  presented  the  club  with  a 
beautiful  crystal  loving  cup.  O’Reilly  wrote  for  the 
occasion  his  beautiful  poem,  “The  Loving  Cup  of  the 
Papyrus.” 

For  brotherhood,  not  wine,  this  cup  should  pass  ; 

Its  depths  should  ne’er  reflect  the  eye  of  malice  ; 

Drink  toasts  to  strangers  with  the  social  glass, 

But  drink  to  brothers  with  this  loving  chalice. 

The  first  “ ladies’  night  ” of  the  Papyrus  Club  was  held 
on  February  22,  1879,  during  his  presidency,  and  was  one 

191 


192 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


of  the  most  brilliant  in  the  club’s  history.  O’Reilly’s 
opening  address  was  in  his  best  vein,  and  ran  as  follows : 

Like  one  called  upon  to  sing  who  is  almost  certain  to  strike  the 
wrong  note  of  accompaniment,  I rise  to  speak  for  the  Papyrus  to-night. 
The  right  word  fitly  spoken  is  a precious  rarity.  Could  I gather  the 
thoughts  that  tremble  to-night  toward  the  lip  of  every  member  of  the 
club,  I should  assuredly  speak  a sweet  word  of  our  own  gratification, 
and  of  welcome  to  our  distinguished  guests. 

On  this,  our  annual  ladies’  night,  it  seemed  right  to  this  club,  com- 
posed of  men  who  work  in  or  who  love  literature  and  art,  to  make  a 
public  testament  of  our  respect  for  those  who  have  won  eminence  in 
these  branches, — our  gifted  writers  and  sweet  singers  whom  all  men 
honor,  because  they  ‘ ‘ can  make  the  thing  that  is  not,  as  the  thing 
that  is.” 

To  express  this  appreciation  and  respect,  we  invited  to  our  dinner  a 
few  of  those  chosen  ones.  We  welcome  them  with  cordial  warmth, 
with  pleasure  and  with  pride.  In  bringing  together  even  so  many  as 
are  here  of  the  brightest  and  sweetest  flowers  of  our  time  and  country, 
we  feel  that  we  have  done  something  honorable  to  the  Papyrus,  and 
beseeming  the  intellectual  renown  of  Boston. 

We  are  proud  to  say  that  their  presence  is  a compliment  to  us  and 
to  Boston.  A hundred  years  ago,  ever  body  patronized  distinguished 
literary  people,  and  in  doing  so  displeased  and  degraded  them.  To- 
day, the  distinguished  literary  people  patronize  everybody  else,  and  in  so 
doing  delight  and  elevate  them — so  that  no  questions  can  be  raised  as  to 
whom  the  natural  right  of  patronage  belongs. 

Perhaps  some  future  historian  of  literature,  seeking  for  the  period 
of  the  change,  will  stop  at  the  record  of  this  reception,  to  read  over  the 
names  of  our  guests,  and  he  will  write  it  down  that  the  Papyrus 
belonged  completely  to  the  new  order  of  things. 

The  author  is  no  longer  “ one  whom  the  strong  sons  of  the  world 
despise.”  The  tables  are  turned  on  “ the  strong  sons  ” so  heavily  that 
one  kind-hearted  poet,  looking  down  from  his  secure  seat  on  the  heights, 
is  moved  to  apologize  or  plead  for  the  million,  “ whose  work  is  great 
and  hard  while  his  is  great  and  sweet.”  You  all  know  the  tender  lines 
of  that  gentle  heart  that  is  with  us  to-night : 

‘ ‘ A few  can  touch  the  magic  string, 

And  noisy  fame  is  proud  to  win  them  ; 

Alas,  for  those  that  never  sing, 

But  die  with  all  their  music  in  them  ! ” 

But  there  is  something  particular  to  be  said  about  our  guests — some 
cunning  word  to  establish  reciprocity  between  them  and  us  ; and  I 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


193 


know  not  where  to  find  nor  how  to  say  it.  It  is  related  of  the  Egyptians, 
as  a social  custom,  that  the  head  of  the  house  always  left  his  seat  and 
gave  it  to  an  honored  guest.  Following  out  the  Egyptian  symbolism 
of  the  Papyrus  it  would  give  me  much  pleasure  to  vacate  this  uneasy 
chair  in  favor  of  Dr.  Holmes  or  Mr.  Stedman,  whose  fertile  fancies 
would  flash  ideas  where  others  could  find  only  prosy  sentences. 

But  the  word  is  still  to  be  said : ‘ ‘ These  twenty  times  beginning  I 
have  come  to  the  same  point  and  stopped.”  You  know  the  story  of  the 
Danish  astronomer,  Tycho  Brahe,  who,  after  many  years  spent  with 
students,  at  length  found  himself  in  a great  domed  hall,  called  upon  to 
address  the  most  eminent  astronomers  of  Europe.  The  roof  of  the  hall 
was  painted  like  the  sky  at  night.  The  astronomers  sat  expectant,  and 
Tycho  Brahe  stood  before  them  silent.  At  length  one  old  man  said : 
“ Why  don’t  you  begin,  Tycho  ? ” “I  don’t  know  where  to  begin  for 
these .”  “Begin  as  if  we  were  students, ” said  another.  Tycho  raised 
his  wand  and  pointed  to  a star.  “ That,”  he  said,  “is  the  third  star  in 
the  claw  of  the  Scorpion  ; this  is  Sirius  ; here  is  Arcturus,  and  yonder 
are  the  Pleiades.”  “O,  that  is  tiresome,”  said  the  old  man.  “ Well, 
then,”  said  Tycho,  “since  you  all  know  their  places  and  names  as  well 
as  I,  let  me  introduce  you,  brethren,  in  one  word— to  the  Stars  ! ” 

I stand  here  in  the  very  blaze  of  the  galaxy,  ‘ ‘ tangled  in  the  silver 
braid  ” of  the  Pleiades.  Tycho  might  have  foreseen  through  these 
centuries  the  use  I should  make  to-night  of  his  general  introduction. 

The  note  we  wished  to  strike  at  this  dinner  was  one  that  may  or  may 
not  have  been  struck  before ; — its  sounding  is  certainly  not  too  common 
as  it  will  be— namely,  that  sex  is  forgotten  in  literary  distinction  ; that, 
if  in  no  other  profession,  at  least  in  literature  and  art,  bright  minds 
cease  to  be  classed  as  men  and  women,  and  are  seen  only  in  the  rich 
neutral  light  of  authorship. 

To-night  we  have  with  us  several  ladies  whose  names  are  nationally 
and  internationally  known  and  honored.  We,  who  read  their  books, 
are  delighted  to  have  an  opportunity  of  reading  their  faces,  to  thank 
them  for  coming  to  us,  some  from  great  distances,  and  to  say  to  them 
how  proud  we  are  of  their  pure  and  honorable  fame. 

Another  great  Irish  centenary,  that  of  the  birthday  of 
Thomas  Moore,  was  commemorated  in  Boston  on  the  29th 
of  May,  by  a banquet  at  the  Parker  House,  Oliver  Wendell 
Holmes  reading  with  genuine  feeling  a grand  poem  in 
memory  of  the  Irish  bard.  Among  the  other  guests  dis- 
tinguished in  literature,  were  John  T.  Trowbridge,  George 
Parsons  Lathrop,  Dr.  Robert  Dwyer  Joyce,  William 
Winter,  Francis  H.  Underwood,  William  A.  Hovey,  and 


194 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


James  T.  Fields.  O’Reilly  presided,  and  delivered  the 
eloquent  address  which  is  published  among  his  speeches  in 
the  present  volume. 

O’  Reilly  was  never  so  winsome  as  when  making  an  off- 
hand speech  at  his  club,  giving  free  rein  to  the  fun  which 
found  such  infrequent  expression  in  his  written  work,  and 
piling  hyperbole  upon  exaggeration,  until  the  orator  him- 
self would  break  down  in  a merry  laugh  at  the  work  of  his 
own  fancy.  A typical  utterance  of  this  kind  was  his 
answer  to  somebody  who  had  challenged  some  startling 
assertion  of  his,  saying,  “ That  is  not  right, — that  is  Irish.” 
“Sir,”  replied  O’Reilly,  assuming  an  air  of  Johnsonian 
dogmatism,  “it  is  better  to  be  Irish  than  right ! ” 

In  half  fanciful,  half  serious  mood  he  glorified  the 
newspaper  profession,  in  his  presidential  address,  at  the 
dinner  of  the  Boston  Press  Club,  in  Young’s  Hotel,  on 
November  8,  1879  : 

Gentlemen  of  the  Press  Club  : It  is  a pleasant  duty  to  congrat- 
ulate men  who  have  feasted  after  a laborious  campaign  ; who  have 
wiped  their  swords  and  broken  bread  together  as  cheerfully  and  lov- 
ingly as  if  their  hands  had  never  penned  a hard  word  or  reeked  in  a 
contemporary’s  reputation. 

To-night  we  occupy  a unique  and  consoling  position.  We  alone 
are  the  unreported.  We  speak  as  we  feel,  and  we  don’t  tremble  for 
to-morrow.  Throughout  the  year  we  set  down  the  words  and  deeds  of 
the  public,  but  on  this  day  of  our  own  meeting  we  shut  out  the  public. 
We  are, — and  I say  it  after  due  consideration, — we  are  a privileged 
class. 

We  are  reminded  by  meetings  like  this  that  there  is  no  profession  so 
complete  and  rounded  as  ours,  and  none  so  far-reaching  in  its  scope. 
We  have  no  hangers-on  that  do  not  come  into  the  general  circulation. 
He  who  has  no  relation  to  type,  except  to  read  what  he  buys,  is  indeed 
a hopeless  outsider,  belonging  wholly  to  the  unregenerate.  From  the 
smallest  printer’s  devil  up  to  Horace  Greeley,  the  chain  is  unbroken. 
The  rawest  youth  who  pens  a police  report  is  one  end  of  a line  which 
extends,  still  vibrating,  until  it  becomes  radiant  in  the  editorial  room  of 
the  Atlantic  Monthly ; and  which  goes  beyond,  still  growing  finer, 
uniting  such  essences  as  Whittier,  Holmes,  and  Longfellow,  and  van- 
ishing into  utter  sublimation  in  the  neighborhood  of  Concord. 

All  who  teach  are  ours.  The  priests  of  all  future  dispensations  shall 
be  members  of  the  press.  Ours  is  the  newest  and  greatest  of  the  pro- 


195 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 

fessions,  involving  wider  work  and  heavier  responsibilities  than  any 
other.  For  all  time  to  come,  the  freedom  and  purity  of  the  press  are 
the  test  of  national  virtue  and  independence. 

No  writer  for  the  press,  however  humble,  is  free  from  the  burden  of 
keeping  his  purpose  high  and  his  integrity  white. 

The  dignity  of  communities  is  largely  intrusted  to  our  keeping  ; 
and  while  we  sway  in  the  struggle  or  relax  in  the  rest-hour,  we  must 
let  no  buzzards  roost  on  the  public  shield  in  our  charge. 

Reunions  like  this  are  necessary  and  wholesome.  They  are  very 
pleasant, — and  yet  they  have  one  side  shaded  with  sadness.  Looking 
down  this  board  we  miss  some  well-remembered  faces  of  past  years. 
Our  profession  changes  its  units  as  rapidly  as  an  army  in  the  field.  It 
is  a machine  always  in  strong  revolution  ; its  pieces  are  violently  tried, 
and  many  drop  out  unable  or  unwilling  to  bear  the  ceaseless  strain. 
Some  of  our  old  members  die,  and  are  transported  to  that  Nirvana 
where  the  angels  are  not  allowed  to  use  their  wings  for  quills — where 
there  are  no  nights,  and,  therefore,  neither  morning  nor  evening 
papers. 

And  then  there  is  that  other  and  more  perplexing  change  which  we 
see  come  over  our  living  members,  who  change  their  papers,  or  whose 
papers  change  their  principles.  It  is  necessary  to  meet  in  this  fashion 
once  a year,  to  assure  ourselves  that  whatever  else  changes,  the  hearts 
of  our  men  do  not,  but  still  beat  in  kindly  and  brotherly  sympathy  and 
good-will. 

As  I stand  here  to-night,  I am  struck  with  the  prevailing  character- 
istics of  the  faces  around  the  board — they  are  unlike  the  faces  of  any 
other  professional  gathering.  They  are  dissimilar  among  themselves 
as  the  pebbles  of  the  sea,  but  have  lines  of  similarity,  lines  that  are 
typical  of  our  observant,  reflective,  shrewd,  sagacious,  persistent,  enter- 
prising, humbug-hating,  and  yet  modest  calling/ 

I am  reminded  by  this  prevalence  of  types  ( I do  not  mean  to  pun)  of 
the  experiment  of  an  English  scientist  in  making  a typical  portrait, 
not  of  a man,  but  of  a class.  He  visited  the  great  prison  of  Millbank, 
in  London.  He  found  that  the  convicts  are  photographed  on  entering, 
and  that  all  photographs  are  made  under  similar  circumstances  ; that 
is,  each  convict  sits  before  the  camera  at  the  same  distance  and  in 
precisely  the  same  position — so  that  the  photographs  are  equal  in  size, 
and  if  a dozen  were  taken  in  a pack,  and  the  portrait  on  top  pierced 
through  the  right  eye  with  a wire,  it  would  also  pierce  the  right  eye  of 
those  below.  The  scientist  took  with  him  a lot  of  these  photographs 
for  experiment.  He  proposed  to  make  a negative  from  tliem.  It  takes, 
say  sixty  seconds,  to  make  a good  negative  from  one  picture.  Well,  he 
placed  one  in  position,  and  opened  his  camera  ; in  six  seconds  he 
dropped  another  in  front  of  it  ; in  six  seconds  more  another ; in  six 


196 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


seconds  more  another  ; and  so  on,  till  he  had  used  up  ten  photographs 
in  the  sixty  seconds.  He  then  had  a portrait  made  from  the  ten,  which 
was  unlike  any  one  of  them.  It  was  that  of  a typical  criminal  ; lines 
which  were  common  to  all  the  faces  were  deeply  impressed,  while  those 
which  were  individual  were  not  emphasized. 

Now,  suppose  we  should  take  the  photographic  portraits  of  the 
men  around  this  table,  and  from  them  select  ten,  and  from  these  ten 
make  a typical  portrait.  What  a noble  presentment  that  would  be! 

A combination  and  a form  indeed, 

Where  every  god  did  seem  to  set  his  seal 
To  give  the  world  assurance  of  a man. 

This  noble  type  brings  me  to  the  summit-house  of  my  powers. 
There  being  no  farther  height  to  climb,  no  more  exalted  possibility 
than  this  great  typical  face  of  the  press,  I must  pause.  I would  ask 
you,  however,  to  become  the  camera,  and  let  all  who  speak  to-night  be 
the  slides  that  go  to  make  up  the  negative.  And  if  you  do  this,  you 
will  each  carry  round  with  you  for  the  coming  year,  in  the  busy  streets 
and  noisy  places,  an  ideal  of  strength  and  beauty  that  will  be  joyful 
and  consoling. 

His  term  of  office  as  president  of  the  Papyrus  Club 
ended  on  the  3d  of  January,  1880.  He  was  succeeded  by 
Vice-President  George  M.  Towle,  the  well-known  historian 
and  essayist.  O’Reilly  was  absent  in  New  York  on  elec- 
tion night,  and  sent  the  following  letter,  in  which  raillery 
and  kindness  are  blended  in  such  admirable  proportions, 
like  vinegar  and  oil,  that  the  result  is  the  most  graceful 
of  sauces  to  the  palate : 

January  3,  1880. 

To  the  Papyrus  Club. 

Gentlemen  : I am  grieved  (no  lesser  word  will  do)  at  my  enforced 
absence  from  the  club  to-night.  I wanted  to  cast  my  vote,  solid  and 
early,  for  “ Towle  and  the  Constitution .”  I wanted  to  drink  the  wine 
of  the  country  of  the  treasurer.  I wanted  to  move  a timely  vote  that 
Towle  should  be  restrained  from  meddling  with  our  chief  instrument, 
the  constitution,  which  he  now  has  in  his  power  even  to  carry  home 
with  him,  by  virtue  of  his  office.  Friends,  I am  with  you  in  spirit  (you 
are  in  spirits;  I am  in  New  York).  May  our  loving-cup  mean  “all 
that  its  name  implies,”  as  it  moves  “in  love’s  festoons,  from  lip  to  lip.” 
(I  quote  from  Hovey,  from  memory.) 

And  now,  dear  boys,  under  this  veneer  of  light  words  lies  a well  of 
deep  feeling  that  I almost  fear  to  tap.  Face  to  face  with  you  I could 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


197 


say  my  say,  as  boldly  as  Rogers,  as  eloquently  as  Young.  But  in 
leaving  the  head  of  your  board,  where  you  have  allowed  my  crude 
ruling  to  pass  for  a year,  I must  say  to  one  and  all,  from  my  heart, 
Thank  you  for  your  kindness  and  courtesy.  The  more  I learn  of  par- 
liamentary law,  the  deeper  becomes  my  affection  for  those  who  sat 
silent  and  heard  my  wonderful  rulings.  To  Towle,  and  Crocker,  and 
Scaife,  especially,  this  consideration  is  doubly  endearing.  What  they 
must  have  suffered  I shall  only  know  when  I study  Hoyle. 

The  only  consolation  I draw  from  my  year  of  office  is  this— the 
Papyrus  has  not  declined  in  vigor  or  promise.  Its  face  is  full  to  the 
front.  For  this,  I earnestly  thank,  and  ask  you  to  thank,  the  gentle- 
men who  compose  the  executive  committee. 

And  now  I retire  to  a private  station — at  the  end  of  the  table,  left  side 
from  the  president,  near  Joyce  and  Harris,  and  those  who,  with 
kindred  blood,  rejoice  in  anarchy. 

Farewell  my  official  distinction ! Henceforward  I carry  a musket, 
at  the  end  of  the  table,  left  side,  near  Joyce.  Good  night,  and  a Happy 
New  Year  to  the  Papyrus ! 

Faithfully  and  affectionately, 

John  Boyle  O’Reilly. 

In  the  summer  of  1879,  O’Reilly  bought  the  house  in 
Hull,  Boston  Harbor,  which  was  to  be  thenceforth  his  sum- 
mer residence,  and  in  which  he  died.  It  was  a very  old 
house,  perhaps  the  oldest  in  Massachusetts.  It  was  built 
in  1644  by  Rev.  Marmaduke  Matthews,  the  pastor  of  Nan- 
tasket,  and  was  used  as  a parsonage  by  some  of  his  succes- 
sors. An  English  revenue  officer,  Lieutenant  William 
Haswell,  occupied  it  prior  to  the  Revolution.  His  claim 
to  remembrance  rests  on  the  fact  that  he  was  the  father  of 
Susanna  Haswell,  afterward  Mrs.  Rowson,  well  known  in 
England  and  America,  as  actress,  author,  and  editor,  and 
best  known  by  her  novel  of  ‘ ‘ Charlotte  Temple. ’ ’ O’  Reill y 
bought  the  property  from  Amos  A.  Lawrence,  it  being  then 
known  as  the  Hunt  estate.  In  1889,  the  old  house  became 
uninhabitable  by  reason  of  general  debility  and  decay,  and 
he  had  the  falling  structure  demolished,  and  set  about 
building  a new  and  handsome  house  on  the  old  site.  The 
plans  were  made  by  his  wife  and  carried  out  under  their 
joint  supervision,  with  careful  attention  to  every  detail. 
In  the  front  yard  stood  an  old  cannon  rescued  from  some 


198 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


forgotten  wreck  in  the  early  days  of  Hull.  In  another 
place  was  a sun-dial  made  by  one  of  the  poet’s  admirers. 
He  planted  his  little  estate  with  wild  vines  and  creepers 
gathered  by  himself  in  the  woods  of  Hingham,  bordering 
his  garden  walks  with  sea- worn  pebbles  and  boulders  that 
he  had  gathered  on  the  beach.  He  took  a pathetic  interest 
in  beautifying  the  home  which  he  had  built  for  himself,  in 
which  he  was  to  die. 

The  year  1880  opened  for  Ireland  as  the  year  1890  did, 
with  famine,  actual  or  impending.  Charles  Stewart  Par- 
nell, the  young  leader  of  the  Irish  party,  visited  America 
to  seek  help  for  his  suffering  countrymen,  and  support  for 
their  leaders  in  Parliament.  He  arrived  at  Hew  York  on 
January  2,  and  was  met  by  delegates  from  all  parts  of  the 
United  States.  On  the  day  following  his  arrival  he  was 
presented  with  an  address  from  natives  of  his  own  county, 
Meath.  Mr.  John  D.  Holan,  the  chairman  of  the  committee 
of  Meath  men,  recognized  O’Reilly  among  the  Boston  dele- 
gates, and  immediately  called  that  delegation  to  order,  and 
said  : 

Fellow  Meath  Men:  I notice  that  Mr.  John  Boyle  O’Reilly  has 
entered  the  room.  He  is  a native  of  the  County  Meath,  a fervent  Irish- 
man, an  author  of  recognized  ability,  who  has  passed  into  not  only  the 
literature  of  America,  but  of  the  world.  He  is  a journalist,  and  a recog- 
nized leader  among  our  countrymen.  He  is  a representative  Irishman 
in  every  sense  of  the  word,  and  I move  that  he  be  selected  to  deliver 
this  address  to  Mr.  Parnell,  instead  of  myself. 

The  motion  was  unanimously  carried.  Mr.  O’Reilly 
thanked  the  men  of  Meath,  and  read  the  address.  Parnell’s 
reply  was  a just  tribute  to  the  fidelity  of  the  priests  and 
people  of  Meath  under  every  trial. 

The  distress  in  Ireland  evoked,  as  it  has  always  done, 
the  profound  sympathy  and  substantial  aid  of  the  Ameri- 
can people.  In  addition  to  the  other  relief  organizations 
the  Hew  York  Herald  inaugurated  a fund  of  its  own,  head- 
ing the  contributions  with  a subscription  of  $100,000,  and 
inviting  Mr.  Parnell  to  become  a member  of  the  committee 
for  its  distribution.  The  invitation  was  accepted  on  con- 


.TOTTIST  BOYLE  O’REILLY’S  COTTAGE,  HULL,  MASS.,  WHERE  HE  DIED. 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


199 


dition  that  Parnell  should  be  allowed  to  appoint  a proxy 
during  his  necessary  absence  in  America.  This  condition 
th  % Herald  refused  to  accept,  saying,  “What  we  desired 
was  his  (Parnell’s)  personal  services.” 

“ Certainly,”  commented  O’Reilly  ; “ why,  not  only  the 
Herald , but  the  English  government  would  give  $100,000 
to  send  back  the  man  who  has  dared  to  answer  the  one, 
and  hold  the  other  up  to  shame  in  this  country.  It  would 
be  worth  a million  dollars  to  England  to  stop  Parnell’s 

mouth  in  America The  week  he  sailed  from  Ireland, 

England  officially  denied  that  there  was  a famine,  or  danger 
of  one,  in  Ireland.” 

The  fact  that  the  Herald  had  persistently  endeavored 
to  discredit  the  mission  of  Parnell  in  America,  and  had 
taken  the  landlord’s  side  in  the  political  contest,  made  its 
charity,  generous  as  it  was,  seem  like  a contribution  from 
the  gift-bearing  Greeks.  “ If  he  (Mr.  Bennett)  was  wrong 
before,”  wrote  O’Reilly,  “he  does  not  become  right  by 
giving  a hundred  thousand  dollars  to  the  famine  fund, 
especially  if  he  hands  it  over  for  distribution  to  the  English 
official  committee.  Mr.  Bennett’s  paper  has  been  the  voice 
of  the  landlords  who  have  caused  this  famine.  He  cannot 
argue  himself  right  by  the  brutal  force  of  wealth.  If  the 
Irish  people  had  reason  to  detest  his  policy,  they  cannot 
sell  their  principles  for  a hundred  thousand  or  a hundred 
million  dollars.  Nevertheless,”  he  continues,  “we  await 
further  action  before  we  judge  the  motives  of  the  man  who 
indorses  his  belief  with  a gift  forty  times  as  great  as  that 
of  the  Queen  of  Great  Britain  and  Ireland.” 

On  the  3d  of  January,  1880,  the  St.  Botolph  Club  of 
Boston  was  established  on  the  model  of  the  famous  Cen- 
tury Club  of  New  York.  O’Reilly  was  one  of  the  original 
members,  among  whom  were  included  the  leading  authors, 
artists,  and  other  men  of  distinction  in  the  city.  It  was  a 
much  more  imposing  club  than  the  Papyrus,  starting  with 
a house  of  its  own  and  a list  of  260  members.  Its  success 
was  assured  from  the  beginning,  for  it  possessed  the  happy 
combination,  so  seldom  found,  of  brains  and  money. 


200 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


In  the  same  year  another  club  was  founded,  possessing, 
in  addition  to  these  two,  a third  valuable  attribute,  that 
of  muscle.  The  “ Cribb  Club,”  named  after  the  famous 
English  boxer,  Tom  Cribb,  was  organized  on  November  27. 
Its  number  of  members  was  limited  to  twenty-five  active 
and  one  hundred  and  twenty-five  honorary  or  associate 
members.  O’ Reilly  belonged  to  the  former.  The  officers 
of  the  club  consisted  of  a u Boss  ” and  an  executive  com- 
mittee of  three.  Mr.  E.  C.  Ellis  was  the  first  “Boss,” 
and  John  Boyle  O’Reilly  the  second.  During  the  admin- 
istration of  the  latter,  the  title  was  changed  to  the  more 
dignified  one  of  president,  and  honorary  members  of  the 
club  were  classed  as  active.  The  Cribb  Club,  founded  for 
the  encouragement  of  the  “manly  art,”  was  one  of  the  most 
exclusive  in  the  exclusive  city  of  Boston,  numbering  among 
its  membership  men  distinguished  in  art,  literature,  and 
statesmanship.  They  were  strong,  brave,  honorable  men, 
who  loved  the  natural  virtue  of  courage  as  much  as  they 
hated  the  cowardly  custom  which  has  made  the  use  of 
the  knife  and  pistol  a reproach  to  the  American  name. 
O’  Reilly  had  all  the  qualifications  to  win  him  popularity 
in  the  company  of  courageous  gentlemen.  Here  is  how 
the  athletic  side  of  his  nature  appealed  to  the  admiration 
of  refined  and  scholarly  Justin  McCarthy: 

Although  he  is  not  more  than  common  tall,  he  has  the  breadth  and 
the  thews  of  a Viking  of  the  days  when  Olaf  Tryggveson  dwelt  by  the 
Liffey  in  Dublin  town  and  wooed  and  won  the  fair  daughter  of  an  Irish 
royal  house.  He  excels  in  all  manly  arts  and  accomplishments  in  a way 
that  we  are  almost  afraid  to  chronicle,  so  like  a hero  of  romance  the 
list  would  make  him  seem. 

Who  among  amateurs  can  ride  better,  row  better,  walk  better  ? above 
all,  who  can  box  better  ? If  such  a man  is  red-hot  in  his  enthusiasm  for 
the  brawn  and  biceps  of  a famous  pugilist,  it  is  not  with  the  sham  enthu- 
siasm of  the  dandies  of  old  Rome  who  pinched  the  muscles  of  gladiators 
with  slim  feminine  fingers.  In  the  society  of  the  physically  strong, 
of  the  physically  skillful,  Boyle  O’Reilly  is  among  his  peers,  and  if  he 
finds  a man  stronger  or  more  skillful  than  himself  it  is  scarcely  wonder- 
ful if  he  accords  him  his  highest  admiration. 

It  is  one  of  the  curious  privileges  of  John  Boyle  O’Reilly  to  be  uni- 
versally liked.  That  he  should  be  liked  by  his  own  people  is  only 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


201 


natural.  He  is  one  of  the  brightest  ornaments  of  the  Irish  race  abroad ; 
he  lives  in  exile  for  his  service  to  his  country ; he  has  enriched  its  na- 
tional literature  with  exquisite  prose  and  yet  more  exquisite  verse ; he 
renders  daily  service  to  the  national  cause.  That  such  a man  should  be 
popular  with  his  own  countrymen  is  scarcely  surprising.  But  Boyle 
O’Reilly’s  popularity  is  not  limited  to  the  children  of  his  own  race. 
Strangers  come  to  Boston,  strangers  often  enough  hostile,  if  not  to  Ire- 
land, at  least  to  Ireland’s  national  cause  and  the  men  who  guide  and 
direct  it.  The  strangers  meet  John  Boyle  O’Reilly  and  they  come  away 
with  a common  tale — enthusiastic  praise,  unqualified  admiration  of  the 
exiled  Irishman.  It  has  happened  time  and  again  that  travelers  in  New 
England  meeting  elsewhere,  and  running  over  their  joint  stock  of  rec- 
ollections, have  each  begun  to  speak  with  warmth  of  the  man  they 
most  admired  of  all  they  met,  and  to  find  immediately  that  the  name  of 
Boyle  O’Reilly  was  on  both  their  lips. 

Once  a very  gifted  man,  a stranger  to  Boston,  met  one  day  a friend, 
a distinguished  Bostonian.  Said  the  stranger  to  the  Bostonian:  “I 
have  just  met  the  most  remarkable,  the  most  delightful  man  in  all  the 
world.”  “I  know  whom  you  mean,”  said  the  Bostonian,  “ you  mean 
John  Boyle  O’Reilly.”  And  the  Bostonian  was  right,  of  course. 

Ancl  here,  from  the  pen  of  a rare  poet  and  novelist,  Mr. 
T.  Russell  Sullivan,  is  a versified  tribute  to  the  best  loved 
son  of  Papyrus,  the  first  contribution  of  the  authoi  after 
his  admission  to  the  club  : 

HERE  AND  HEREAFTER. 

When  the  youngest  of  all  is  the  oldest, 

When  the  bell  for  our  Prexy  shall  toll: 

When  death’s  optic  transfixes  the  boldest, 

When  the  iron  has  entered  our  soul  ; 

When  adversity’s  saccharine  uses 
Shall  no  longer  watch  over  our  gold, 

And  when  Howard  takes  tea  with  the  muses, 

Leaving  Tennyson  out  in  the  cold ; 

With  earth’s  greatest  grown  sadder  and  wiser, 

Old  palaces  let  to  new  lodgers, 

Albert  Edward,  Gambetta,  the  Kaiser, 

All  dust — with  ex-President  Rogers ; 

Still  the  dark  dial  hand  shall  go  flitting 
Till  the  smallest  wee  numbers  shall  chime 
Round  some  dinner  committee.,  left  sitting, 

On  my  honor,  twelve  hours  at  a time, 


202 


JOHN  BOYLE  o’ REILLY. 


While  our  youngsters — or  theirs,  as  it  may  be — 

Gather  here  when  a banquet  is  toward, 

All  as  merry  as  we  are  shall  they  be, 

And  the  saddle  shall  smoke  on  the  board. 

And  the  mirth  shall  wax  deeper  and  broader 
Round  the  cup  we  have  emptied  and  filled, 

Till  the  hammer  shall  knock  down  disorder, 

And  the  shriek  of  the  hawk  shall  be  stilled. 

Then  the  dusty  Papyrus  leaves  turning, 

Says  some  juvenile  bard  of  the  time: 

“ Let  us  pick  out  a brand  from  the  burning, 

Let  us  see  what  these  roosters  called  rhyme ! ” 

Drawn  apart  from  those  time-honored  pages 
By  the  hand  of  good  fortune  alone, 

Falls  a leaf  of  the  earlier  ages 
By  the  only  O’Reilly — our  own. 

And  the  voice  of  the  scoffer  that  reads  it 
Takes  a tremulous  turn  in  our  cause ; 

More  expressive  the  silence  that  heeds  it 
Than  the  loudest  and  wildest  applause. 

Then  the  cherub  that  once  was  O’Reilly, 

On  his  cloud  in  the  mystical  land, 

Shall  aslant  from  his  halo  peep  slyly, 

And  his  harp  shall  slide  out  of  his  hand. 

He  shall  linger  a moment  to  listen, 

Looking  down  from  perpetual  joys, 

And  a tear  on  his  eyelids  shall  glisten 
As  benignly  he  whispers : ‘ ‘ Dear  boys ! ” 

December  4,  1880. 

This  apostle  of  muscular  Christianity  could  forgive  an 
injury,  no  matter  how  grievous  ; but  an  insult  he  resented 
promptly  with  pen  or  hand,  as  occasion  seemed  to  require. 
Such  an  occasion  presented  itself  one  day  in  the  fall  of 
1874,  when  a fellow,  who  had  sought  the  Pilot's  counte- 
nance in  aid  of  a certain  object  for  which  he  was  canvassing, 
resented  the  editor’s  refusal  by  circulating  some  slanders 
about  him.  When  he  next  called  at  the  Pilot  office, 
O’Reilly  demanded  an  explanation  and  retraction.  The 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES.  203 

fellow  denied  the  story ; but  on  being  asked  to  put  his 
denial  in  writing,  he  quibbled  and  shirked  the  act ; “ upon 
which,”  says  the  Pilot,  ingenuously,  “Mr.  O’Reilly  gave 
him  a sound  thrashing  and  kicked  him  out  of  the  editorial 

rooms.  When  Mr.  speaks  about  the  Pilot  in 

future,  people  will  understand  his  motive.” 

O’  Reilly,  ever  a loyal  Democrat,  waged  gallant  war  for 
his  party’s  ticket  in  the  presidential  election  of  1880. 
When  the  contest  ended  in  the  enemy’s  favor  he  took  the 
defeat  manfully,  like  the  gladiator  that  he  was,  and 
acknowledged  it  in  the  next  issue  of  his  paper  under  the 
caption, 

WHIPPED. 

Well,  we  made  a great  fight.  That  is  enough  for  honest  Democrats. 
We  fling  no  reproach  on  the  victors.  We  wrestled,  and  have  been 
thrown.  Curs  whine  ; we  don’t. 

There  is  no  decadence  of  Democratic  health  when  a tremendous 
struggle  has  wavered  long  in  the  balance.  The  controversy  of  the 
campaign  has  been  terrible  ; but  it  has  been  magnificent.  Out  of  the 
seething  vortex  the  country  comes  tired, — but  cleansed.  The  victors 
breathe  hard  ; they  have  had  a lesson  of  fire.  Centralization'  has  not 
yet  been  killed— never  will  be  killed  till  the  Democrats  elect  their 
President ; but  Garfield  does  not  attempt  the  policy  of  Grant. 

Great  principles  and  parties  are  solidified  and  strengthened  by 
defeat.  Why  has  the  Democratic  party  failed  to  carry  the  country  ? 

It  is  disgraceful  to  say  that  the  national  will  has  been  decided  by 
corruption.  It  certainly  has  been  influenced  by  the  rapacity  and 
deliberate  wickedness  of  the  office-holding  organization.  But  this 
must  always  be  true  of  a national  election.  Outside  of  this  are  the 
people — and  the  people  have  elected  Garfield. 

****** 

And  now,  let  us  draw  breath  and  return  to  business.  The  country 
is  Republican  for  four  years  more ; but  it  is  safe.  There  is  no  room  for 
wild  exultation  in  the  other  camp.  Every  thew  was  strained  before  we 
were  thrown.  The  victor  respects  the  vanquished.  We  are  all  one 
people — just  a leetle  more  than  half  on  the  other  side  this  time. 

But  the  grand  old  Democratic  principles  still  live  ; and  next  time 
we  wont  be  whipped. 

And  they  were  not. 


CHAPTER  XIL 


His  Editorials  and  Public  Utterances — Honored  by  Dartmouth  College 
and  Notre  Dame — The  “ Statues  in  the  Block  ” — “ Ireland’s  Oppor- 
tunity ” — “ Erin  ” — Tribute  to  Longfellow  — His  Great  Poem, 
“America,”  Read  before  the  Veterans  — The  Phoenix  Park 
Tragedy— Death  of  Fanny  Parnell — “ To  those  who  have  not  yet 
been  President.” 

IN  April,  1881,  died  the  great  Tory  Prime  Minister  of 
England,  Benjamin  Disraeli,  less  well  known  as  Lord 
Beaconsfield.  Through  all  his  life,  from  the  day  when  he 
first  brought  down  upon  his  rash  head  the  caustic  scorn  of 
O’Connell,  to  the  end  of  his  glittering  career,  he  had  been 
the  enemy  of  the  Irish  cause, — not  from  any  bigotry, — he 
was  not  sincere  enough  to  be  a bigot, — but  because  such 
was  the  policy  favored  by  the  Tory  party.  O’Reilly  thus 
summed  up  the  character  of  the  greatest  of  modern  political 
charlatans  : 

The  place  of  an  able  political  showman  is  made  vacant  in  England 
by  the  death  of  Lord  Beaconsfield.  It  was  peculiarly  his  own,  and  it 
probably  will  not  be  filled  again  as  he  filled  it.  A showman,  whether 
political  or  otherwise,  needs  more  than  common  talent  to  achieve  great 
success.  Benjamin  Disraeli  certainly  possessed  a high  order  of  talent, 
and  it  is  equally  certain  that  his  success  was  of  no  common  sort.  He 
employed  the  arts  and  tricks  of  the  charlatan  ; but  it  was  the  hand  of  a 
master  that  used  them. 

It  was  a great  thing  for  a man  inheriting  the  disadvantages  of  race, 
and — at  least  nominally — of  creed,  which  beset  Disraeli  at  the  begin- 
ning of  his  career,  to  conquer  in  spite  of  them.  England  was  still  full 
of  intolerance  toward  Jews  when  the  son  of  the  Jew,  Isaac  Disraeli, 
began  to  attract  attention.  He  had  to  fight  his  way  against  that 
intolerance,  and  he  fought  it  well.  The  barriers  which  obstructed  his 
progress  were  overcome,  one  after  another,  by  persistent,  undeviating 
effort.  The  obscure  son  of  the  Jew,  whose  only  claim  to  distinction 

204 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


205 


was  that  he  wrote  the  “Curiosities  of  Literature,”  advanced  by  sure 
degrees,  till  he  gained  the  place  of  Prime  Minister  of  England. 

****** 

Some  other  man  will  step  into  his  place  as  a party  leader.  The  same 
“ideas”  which  constituted  his  policy  will,  no  doubt,  continue  to  com- 
mand approval  in  the  Tory  ranks.  Although  he  occupied  an  important 
position  in  it,  the  world  goes  on  to-day  just  as  it  would  if  Benjamin 
Disraeli  had  never  taken  part  in  its  affairs.  That  he  possessed  signal 
ability  is  not  to  be  denied.  He  gained  by  it  a place  on  the  roll  of  English 
statesmen.  He  tried  to  do  much  for  mere  power.  It  cannot  be  said 
that  he  did  anything  for  humanity.  The  world  is  none  the  better  for 
the  part  he  played  in  it  for  nearly  fifty  years. 

O’Reilly’s  place  in  literature  had  been  safely  assured 
by  this  time  ; it  was  recognized  by  two  great  centers  of 
learning  almost  simultaneously.  At  the  thirty- seventh 
annual  commencement  exercises  of  the  University  of  Notre 
Dame,  Indiana,  on  June  21,  22,  and  23,  1881,  he  received 
the  degree  of  Doctor  of  Laws  ; in  the  same  week,  he  was 
elected  an  honorary  member  of  the  Phi  Beta  Kappa,  of 
Dartmouth  College,  before  which  he  read  his  poem  of  4 4 The 
Three  Queens.”  In  April  of  the  same  year  he  published 
his  second  volume  of  poems,  through  Roberts  Bros.,  44  The 
Statues  in  the  Block,”  dedicated  44  To  the  Memory  of  Eliza 
Boyle,  my  Mother.”  The  little  volume  of  only  110  pages 
ran  through  four  editions.  It  contained  some  of  the  most 
finely  finished  and  musical  verses  that  he  ever  wrote  ; 
among  them  44  Her  Refrain,”  44  Love’s  Secret,”  44  Wait- 
ing,” 44  The  Well’s  Secret,”  and  that  most  tender  and 
melodious  of  all  his  songs,  44  Jacqueminots.”  In  it  also 
appeared  his  powerful  denunciation  of  social  wrong, 
44  From  the  Earth,  a Cry,”  44  Prometheus-Christ,”  and  his 
most  dramatic  Australian  poem,  44  The  Mutiny  of  the 
Chains.”  44  The  Statues  in  the  Block,”  his  best  effort  in 
blank  verse,  and  the  poem  which  gave  the  book  its  title, 
contained  two  lines  which  were  the  author’s  favorites,  for 
he  most  frequently  quoted  them  when  requested  to  write  an 
autograph  sentiment : 

When  God  gives  to  us  the  clearest  sight, 

He  does  not  touch  our  eyes  with  love  but  sorrow. 


206 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


The  new  volume  added  to  the  poet’s  already  great  fame  ; 
on  all  sides  it  received  the  highest  praise.  The  technical 
faults  of  his  earlier  work  had  been  pruned  and  polished 
away,  without  impairing  the  strength  of  his  verse.  His 
head  was  not  turned  by  the  praise  he  had  won.  He  was 
keenly  delighted  to  receive  the  admiration  of  his  fellow- 
men,  but  he  was  no  churl,  hugging  to  his  bosom  the  prizes 
of  fame.  No  man  was  quicker  to  recognize  merit  in 
another,  and  to  extend  encouragement  and  praise  to  every 
promising  aspirant  in  literature.  To  young  poets  he  was 
especially  kind  and  considerate  ; the  Pilot  being  the 
theater  on  which  a score  of  bards,  afterward  more  or  less 
distinguished,  made  their  first  bow.  Transatlantic  poets, 
chiefly  Irish,  also  sought  his  counsel  and  friendship, 
usually  making  their  first  American  reputation  through  the 
columns  of  his  paper.  Oscar  Wilde  wrote  him  : “I  esteem 
it  a great  honor  that  the  first  American  paper  I appeared 
in  should  be  your  admirable  Pilot  P T.  W.  Rolleston, 
Douglas  Hyde,  Lady  Wilde,  Katherine  Tynan,  William 
B.  Yeats,  and  a dozen  other  Irish  poets  were  regular  con- 
tributors to  the  Pilot.  He  paid  his  writers  well,  never 
withholding  the  guerdon,  dearest  to  the  poetic  soul,  of 
generous  helpful  praise.  He  was  the  kindliest  of  critics, 
for  he  was  utterly  incapable  of  saying  a harsh  word  con- 
cerning a book  whose  offenses  were  only  literary.  He 
would  not  give  undeserved  praise,  but  he  mercifully  with- 
held deserved  condemnation.  When  a book  submitted  to 
him  for  review  was  absolutely  outside  the  pale  of  toleration, 
he  preferred  to  let  it  die  of  its  own  demerits  instead  of 
putting  it  out  of  pain.  He  was  totally  devoid  of  that  ten- 
der literary  conscience,  which  impels  its  owners  to  flay 
alive  the  criminal  who  has  rushed  into  print  without  a per- 
mit from  Parnassus. 

O’Reilly  at  this  period  looked  much  older  than  his 
years.  A well-known  picture  represents  him  with  the 
long  hair  and  full  beard,  which  he  wore  from  1874  to  1880. 
It  was  some  throat  trouble,  probably  a legacy  of  the  old 
Dartmoor  drains,  that  compelled  him  to  wear  a beard  for 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


207 


several  years.  When  he  shaved  it  off  in  1880,  and  clipped 
his  flowing  locks,  he  looked  five  years  younger.  Dr.  Edgar 
Parker,  the  portrait  painter,  made  a fine  picture  of  him  in 
the  latter  aspect;  it  hangs  in  the  library  of  O’Reilly’s 
house  in  Charlestown,  where  also  is  a striking  bust  of  him 
by  John  Donoghue. 

In  October,  1881,  the  strained  relations  of  Gladstone  and 
Parnell  reached  a crisis.  Mr.  Gladstone  had  the  Irish 
chieftain  and  other  nationalist  leaders  arrested  and 
imprisoned  in  Kilmainham  jail.  The  arrest  was  as  arbi- 
trary as  their  subsequent  release  was  illogical ; the  attempt 
to  intimidate  the  Irish  people  recoiled  upon  its  authors. 

‘ ‘ The  precedent  of  O’  Connell’ s arrest,  with  the  conse- 
quent decay  of  the  repeal  movement,”  wrote  O’Reilly, 
“may  be  remembered  by  the  English  government.  But 
the  world  has  changed  since  then  ; the  very  contrary  will 
be  the  result  now.  The  millions  of  expatriated  Irishmen, 
three  times  as  numerous  as  the  population  of  Ireland,  send 
to  ‘ the  men  in  the  gap  ’ a courage  and  firmness  that  will 
defy  all  pressure. 

‘ 4 The  world  is  so  united  nowadays  that  every  thrill  cir- 
culates. Things  can  no  more  be  done  in  a corner.  Nations 
cannot  in  these  times  be  strangled  in  secret.  When  Eng- 
land strikes  Ireland  with  a sword  to-day,  or  fells  her  to 
the  earth  and  manacles  her,  throat  and  limb,  humanity 
looks  on — and  amid  that  humanity  are  millions  of  strong, 
indignant  men  who  belong  by  blood  to  the  suffering 
country. 

* * * * * * 

“ England  may  imprison  every  public  representative  in 
Ireland.  She  may  break  up  every  public  meeting  of  the 
Land  League.  V-ery  well.  Then  she  drives  the  people  to 
secret  organization — she  plays  into  the  hands  of  the  revolu- 
tionists.” 

In  January,  1882,  there  appeared  in  the  American 
Catholic  Quarterly  Review  a thoughtful  article  by 
O’Reilly,  entitled  “Ireland’s  Opportunity — Will  it  be 
Lost  ? ” In  a few  sentences  he  reviewed  the  various  efforts 


208 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


of  Irish  nationalists  in  recent  times — the  Young  Ireland 
rising  in  ’48,  the  Repeal  movement  of  O’Connell,  the  Fe- 
nian revolutionary  scheme,  and,  lastly,  the  Land  League, 

4 4 conceived  in  the  brain  of  an  Irish  political  prisoner  in  a 
Dartmoor  cell,  Michael  Davitt, — a man  of  great  natural 
power,  with  a conscientious  hunger  for  thoroughness  of 
work  and  understanding,  who  admitted  to  his  own  heart 
that  Irish  movements  had  failed  to  affect  England  because 
they  had  first  failed  to  enlist  Ireland.  ” Referring  to  the 
famine  of  1880  and  the  coercive  policy  of  the  Government, 
he  said  : 

The  arrest  of  Parnell  and  the  other  leaders — and  even  the  lawless 
shattering  of  the  Land  League  in  Ireland  by  armed  and  ruffianly  force, 
have  been  futile  work  for  the  English  Government.  The  arrest  of  Par- 
nell differs  from  the  arrest  of  O’Connell,  because  there  are  now,  in  this 
country  alone,  more  organized  Irish  societies,  and  twice  as  many  Irish- 
men as  there  are  in  Ireland. 

And  every  thousand  Irishmen  exercising  in  America  the  power  of 
their  moral  force  are  a leaven  to  be  heeded  more  by  English  statesmen 
than  the  armed  rebellion  of  the  same  men  or  their  fathers  in  Ireland. 

The  Land  League  has  succeeded.  It  has  compelled  the  passage  of  a 
law  that  will  lower  rents,  more  or  less.  It  has  raised  the  Irish  question 
into  cosmopolitan  attention.  It  has  crystalized  the  national  sentiment 
of  the  Irish  people  and  their  descendants  in  America,  Australia,  Canada 
and  other  countries.  But  above  all  its  good  results,  it  has  nationalized 
the  Irish  farmers,  traders,  priests  and  well-to-do  classes,  and  they  stand 
now  ready  and  waiting  for  the  next  act  in  the  national  drama. 

It  is  time  for  the  curtain  to  rise  again.  When  the  Land  League, 
aided  fearfully  by  the  famine,  began  its  agitation,  its  timeliness  and 
force  were  acknowledged  by  all  Irish  parties.  The  Home  Rulers  vir- 
tually subsided,  giving  the  newcomers  their  place.  The  Revolutionists 
looked  on  with  unfriendly  eyes,  at  first  fearing  that  the  land  movement, 
which  only  aimed  at  a detail,  would  distract  attention  from  the  National 
idea.  But  as  they  watched,  they  saw  that  the  new  agitation  was  raising 
the  farmers  and  tradesmen  into  activity,  and  after  a time  the  Land 
League  was  left  alone  in  the  field  to  work  out  its  purpose  as  best  it 
could. 

Now,  it  must  be  asked  and  answered  : Where  does  the  Land  League 
propose  to  end  ? 

Mr.  Parnell’s  object  for  the  organization,  expressed  more  than  a year 
ago,  was  the  expropriation  of  Irish  landlords — which  means  the  pur- 
chase of  the  land  by  the  government  and  its  re-sale  on  easy  terms  to  the 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


209 


Irish  farmers.  Ireland  does  not  want  this  to-day,  and  would  be  most 
unwise  to  accept  it.  If  England  during  the  past  two  years  had  had 
statesmen  of  first-rate  quality,  she  would  have  speedily  offered  this 
settlement ; and  had  the  people  of  Ireland  accepted  her  offer,  they  would 
now  find  themselves  more  inextricably  bound  to  Great  Britain  than 
ever  the  act  of  Union  bound  them. 

If  the  English  Government  purchase  the  land  from  the  landlords 
and  resell  it  to  the  farmers  of  Ireland,  the  world’s  opinion  will  hold 
these  men  bound  to  their  contract.  The  legitimate  outcome  of  the  Land 
League  is  therefore  not  national.  It  was  never  meant  to  be  national. 
On  the  contrary,  it  would  be  the  doom  of  Irish  nationality,  at  least  for 
a full  generation,  until  the  debt  of  the  farmers  to  the  English  Govern- 
ment had  been  repaid. 

Some,  and  many,  will  say  that  Ireland — even  in  the  case  of  such  a 
sale— would  owe  England  nothing,  in  view  of  the  centuries  of  wrong 
and  robbery.  This  is  doubtless  true  in  equity ; but  why  make  a con- 
tract at  all?  It  will  not  help  matters  any  way.  Better  to  preserve  the 
integrity  of  the  Irish  farmer,  even  though  he  should  starve.  If  the 
present  630,000  tenant  farmers,  augmented  by  at  least  a million  mo**e, 
as  they  would  be,  were  to  agree  to  buy  from  England  the  land  of  Ire- 
land, meaning  to  break  the  bargain  by  a revolution  next  year,  their 
conduct  would  be,  in  the  mildest  judgment  of  other  nations,  deceitful 
and  discreditable. 

It  is  not  necessary  to  do  this.  For  the  best  interests  of  Ireland  it 
must  not  be  done. 

“ But,”  it  will  be  said  by  some  Irishmen,  “ the  Land  League  means 
to  abolish  rent  altogether.”  It  means  no  such  thing.  It  has  never  said 
so,  nor  has  it  ever  so  intended.  Such  a proposition  is  absurd,  so  far  at 
least  as  the  present  Irish  question  is  concerned.  It  is  a social  theory 
which  no  country  has  yet  accepted.  No  sensible  person  expects  poor 
Ireland,  struggling  for  very  life,  to  voluntarily  burden  herself  also 
with  a socialistic  mill-stone  that  would  probably  sink  the  United 
States. 

Therefore,  if  the  Land  League  has  only  one  legitimate  purpose,  and 
if  Ireland  has  reason  to  reconsider  that  purpose,  it  is  time  to  look  ahead 
and  take  new  bearings. 

The  aim  of  Irek  nd  in  doing  this  is  fortunately  assisted  by  time  and 
tradition.  The  year  1882  is  the  centennial  of  the  Irish  Parliament  ob- 
tained by  the  agitation  of  Henry  Grattan.  The  progressive  issue  of  the 
land  agitation  is  a demand  for  a government  of  Ireland  by  the  Irish 
themselves. 

Circumstances  never  worked  more  fortuitously  to  an  end  than  here. 
The  Land  League  has  accomplished  its  work  so  far  as  it  can  safely  and 
wisely  be  accomplished.  The  whole  people  are  aroused.  The  English 


210 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 

Government,  at  its  wit’s  end,  is  apparently  ready  to  listen  to  a proposi- 
tion from  Ireland  that  will  restore  peace  without  dismembering  the 
empire.  The  present  Prime  Minister  and  many  other  leading  English- 
men have  clearly  so  expressed  themselves,  and  without  damnatory  criti- 
cism by  any  English  class  or  party. 

Ireland  in  1882  ought  to  agitate  for  and  demand  her  own  govern- 
ment. No  matter  by  what  name  the  movement  is  called,  whether 
Home  Rule,  Repeal  or  Federation.  The  result  will  be  practically  the 
same.  The  natural  resources  of  the  country  will  be  worked  and  cher- 
ished by  its  own  people.  The  official  life  will  no  longer  be  an  alien  and 
inimical  network  spread  over  the  island.  The  insolent  presence  of  sol- 
diery and  armed  constablery  will  disappear.  The  dignity  of  a people 
upholding  a nationality  they  are  proud  of  will  take  the  place  of  the 
servile  helplessness  of  an  almost  pauper  population. 

We  do  not  fear  for  Ireland’s  future  in  a federal  union  with  England. 
Nature  has  given  the  lesser  country  inestimable  advantages.  The  anti- 
trade laws  passed  by  England  in  the  last  century  are  proof  that  even 
then  she  feared  mercantile  and  manufacturing  competition  with  Ireland. 
The  intelligence  of  commerce  will  steer  its  merchant  ships  into  Ireland’s 
southern  and  western  ports,  to  avoid  the  dangers  of  the  fatal  English 
Channel.  The  unrivaled  water  power  of  the  rivers — from  whose  tum- 
bling streams  even  the  flour  mills  have  disappeared — will  drive  the 
wheels  of  manufacture  into  competition  with  Lancashire. 

If  the  landlords  of  Ireland  are  to  be  bought  out — and  we  see  no  other 
way  for  the  farmers  to  become  proprietors,  unless  the  government  drive 
the  people  into  revolution — it  is  better  that  they  should  be  bought  out 
by  an  Irish  rather  than  an  English  Parliament. 

And  if,  after  a fair  trial  of  the  Federal  union,  it  were  found  that 
Ireland  suffered  by  the  bond,  that  she  was  outnumbered  in  council, 
harassed  and  injured  by  imperial  enactments,  that  in  fact  it  was  an 
unequal  and  unbearable  contract,  then  still  there  remains  the  ultimate 
appeal  of  an  oppressed  people — separation — even  by  the  sharp  edge  of 
violence. 

The  next  step  for  Ireland  is  obviously  not  revolution.  She  has  been 
for  the  past  four  years  a model  to  the  world  of  intelligent,  peaceful 
agitation.  Her  people  have  pursued  their  legal  purpose  with  marvelous 
patience,  tenacity  and  temper.  They  have  not  broken  the  law,  under 
terrible  excitements  and  constant  presence  of  the  flaunted  arrogance 
and  ruffianism  of  unnecessary  military  power.  They  have  achieved 
the  greatest  of  all  triumphs  in  compelling  their  powerful  opponent 
either  to  yield  or  to  break  all  the  laws  that  it  had  itself  invented  to 
oppress  and  hamper  the  weaker  country. 

A people  with  such  political  intelligence  and  fertility  need  not  fear 
federation  with  England.  If  Ireland  can  beat  her  even  under  present 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES.  211 

disadvantages,  she  will  assuredly  hold  her  own  under  a fairer  relation- 
ship. 

The  men  who  recently  issued  a Home  Rule  manifesto  in  Ireland 
were  undoubtedly  right.  They  struck  the  proper  note  exactly  ; but 
they  did  it  with  uncertain  hand,  for  their  utterance  has  already  faded 
into  silence,  though  it  met  with  no  serious  opposition. 

The  people  of  Ireland  are  to-day  without  a national  policy.  The 
splendid  Land  League  organization  goes  on  grinding,  but  it  is  not 
grinding  toward  nationality.  Its  great-hearted  work  for  the  present 
winter  is  to  protect  the  evicted  families  of  farmers  who  refuse  to  pay 
rent  because  England  has  outraged  even  her  own  laws.  But  Ireland 
cannot  go  on  forever  fighting  with  all  her  forces  against  a minor  evil. 
If  she  go  on  for  six  months  longer,  England  will  open  her  eyes  to  her 
opportunity,  and  bind  Ireland  in  new  hemp  by  the  sale  of  the  country 
to  the  farmers. 

The  late  Irish -American  Convention  in  Chicago  might  well  have 
started  the  national  proposition.  Had  that  meeting  spoken  for  an 
Irish  Government  in  Ireland,  with  the  Union  repealed,  and  a federal 
union  substituted,  Ireland  would  have  answered  like  one  man.  That 
meeting  did  not  so  speak  because  a few  men  antagonized  the  Home  Rule 
idea,  and  declare  that  they  will  have  nothing  less  than  utter  separation 
from  England,  with  a republican  and  socialistic  government  for  Ireland. 

To  obtain  these  two  objects,  Ireland  must  fight  England  with  arms. 
She  must  seize  all  the  strong  places,  at  present  occupied  by  fifty  thou- 
sand armed  men.  She  must,  in  one  month,  put  in  the  field  an  army  of 
at  least  one  hundred  thousand  men,  equipped  with  engineers  and  artil- 
lery ; England  in  the  same  time  will  land  on  her  shores  at  least  that 
number  of  soldiers.  She  must  establish  a fleet,  to  keep  herself  from 
suffocation,  if  not  starvation.  And  she  must  fight  out  a desperate  con- 
flict for  existence,  without  a hope  of  borrowing  fifty  dollars  in  foreign 
markets  on  her  national  promissory  note. 

What  sensible  Irishman  favors  this  policy  ? What  earnest  revolu- 
tionist is  prepared  to  wait  until  all  this  can  be  done  before  Ireland 
obtains  a Parliament  of  her  own  ? 

The  sooner  Ireland  in  America  speaks  on  this  point  the  better. 
Many  earnest  Irishmen,  among  the  leaders  in  Ireland,  firmly  believe 
that  Irish -Americans  are  all  blood-and-thunder  radicals.  One  of  the 
ablest  of  the  leaders  now  in  prison,  recently  wrote  the  writer  that  the 
belief  is  widespread  in  Ireland  that  the  Irish- Americans  will  have  noth- 
ing less  than  absolute  “ no  rent  ” and  ultimate  revolution. 

Such  a belief  is  utterly  wrong.  Even  the  revolutionary  party  in 
America  condemn  as  absurd  the  ‘ ‘ No  Rent  ” proposition.  This  party, 
too,  sees  that  Irish  Home  Rule  in  no  way  conflicts  with  their  own 
more  consummate  settlement. 


212 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


Another,  and  a very  grave  reason  for  an  expression  of  policy,  is 
that  the  best  intelligence,  both  in  Ireland  and  America,  will  withdraw 
from  a movement  that  either  cloaks  its  ultimate  purpose,  or  has  none. 
Already  the  Land  League  has  suffered  deep  loss  by  the  vagueness  of  its 
drift.  One  American  bishop  has  publicly  uttered  his  disapproval  of  an 
organization  which  he  could  not  understand  ; and  the  Catholic  clergy 
generally  have,  it  is  believed,  a secret  and  a growing  feeling  in  regard 
to  the  Land  League,  that  they  are  dealing  with  an  occult  and  uncer- 
tain organism. 

To  allow  so  great  an  organization  to  collapse  through  blind  manage- 
ment and  lack  of  purpose  would  be  calamitous.  To  fight  the  landlords 
and  support  the  evicted  tenants  is  not  a national  policy — it  is  not 
enough.  When  the  land  question  is  settled,  the  question  of  an  Irish 
Government  for  Ireland  will  be  no  nearer  a solution  than  at  present. 

A demand  for  Home  Rule  by  the  Irish  people,  supported  by  their 
representatives  in  Parliament,  will  obtain  sympathy  in  all  countries, 
and  particularly  in  America.  The  Land  League  has  demonstrated  its 
necessity  to  the  world.  It  will  give  life*  to  the  magnificent  organiza- 
tion which  now  has  nothing  to  do  but  raise  money.  It  will  receive 
instant  and  thorough  approval  and  support  from  the  Catholic  hierarchy 
and  priests,  both  in  Ireland  and  America,  and  from  intelligent  and 
conservative  men,  who  have  hitherto  avoided  all  Irish  national  move- 
ments. 

Unless  this  demand  is  made,  and  soon  made,  the  Land  League 
organization  will  dwindle  into  insignificance,  and  an  opportunity  such 
as  Ireland  has  not  seen  for  a century  will  be  lost. 

This  frank  treatment  of  the  Irish  question  won  the 
approval  of  the  author’s  countrymen,  with  very  few  ex- 
ceptions. The  extreme  nationalists  appreciated  the  sin- 
cerity of  his  words,  even  while  they  did  not  agree  with  his 
policy.  A few — they  were  very  few — denounced  the  article 
as  “ traitorous.”  Of  these  O’Reilly  said  in  the  Pilot: 

The  Irish  people  are  too  deeply  in  earnest  to  be  quite  calm  when 
their  national  sentiments  are  on  the  table.  We  do  not  regret  the  heat, 
because  by  it  we  perceive  the  earnestness.  The  man  who  wants  to  be 
treated  with  gloves  should  never  leap  into  a crowd  of  enthusiastic 
strugglers.  Some  of  the  personalities  and  angry  expressions  called  out 
by  the  article  are  absurd,  and  the  writers  either  are,  or  will  soon  be, 
ashamed  of  them.  Out  of  all,  one  or  two  only  were  unjust  or  offen- 
sive ; and  these  Mr.  O’Reilly  can  well  afford  to  pass,  not,  however, 
without  regret  that  any  Irishmen  could  be  found  to  so  easily  disrespect 
themselves  and  others. 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES.  213 

At  the  St.  Patrick’s  Day  dinner  of  the  Charitable  Irish 
Society  of  Boston,  in  this  year,  O’Reilly  read  his  poem, 
“ Erin,”  with  its  tender  Irish  words  of  endearment : 

What  need  of  new  tongues  ! sure  the  Gaelic  is  clearest, 

Like  nature’s  own  voice  every  word ; 

“Ahagur  ! acushla ! savourneen!”  the  dearest 
The  ear  of  a girl  ever  heard. 

The  death  of  Longfellow,  in  March,  1882,  evoked  this 
tribute  from  his  brother  poet : 

Why  should  we  mourn  for  the  beautiful  completion  of  a beautiful 
life.  He  died  in  the  later  autumn  of  his  grand  life.  It  is  well  that  he 
was  spared  the  winter.  The  spreading  tree  went  down  in  full  leafage 
and  rich  maturity.  We  have  not  seen  any  signs  of  decay;  and  inevi- 
table decay  is  sadder  than  death . Our  Longfellow’s  death,  like  his  life, 
was  a noble  and  quiet  poem It  was  and  will  remain  an  illus- 

tration of  the  permanent  appreciation  of  mankind  for  the  beautiful, 
un-trade-like,  spiritual  work  of  the  poet.  When  he  succeeds  in  reach- 
ing men’s  hearts,  all  other  successes  are  as  nought  to  the  poet’s.  All 
other  honors,  emoluments,  distinctions,  are  chips  and  tinsel  compared 
with  the  separated  and  beloved  light  which  surrounds  him  in  the  eyes 
and  hearts  of  the  people. 

The  admiration  of  O’  Reilly  for  Longfellow  was  sincere 
and  abiding,  for  the  gentle  American  poet  had  been  his 
warm  friend  and  admirer.  To  another  friend,  the  genial 
essayist,  “ Taverner,”  of  the  Boston  Post , lam  indebted 
for  the  following  anecdote  : 

I heard  of  an  incident  the  other  day  which  has  a peculiar  interest 
from  its  association  with  a man  to  whose  memory  tributes  of  respect 
and  affection  have  been  paid  in  remarkable  measure  here  in  Boston 
and  elsewhere.  A lady  residing  in  the  suburbs,  the  wife  of  a well- 
known  clergyman,  was  in  Westminster  Abbey,  July  5,  1885.  She 
noticed  particularly  that  the  bust  of  Longfellow  in  Poets’  Corner  was 
ornamented  with  a wreath  which,  it  occurred  to  her,  had  been  placed 
there  the  day  before  in  recognition  of  the  association  of  Longfellow’s 
poetry  with  the  patriotic  spirit  emphasized  by  the  anniversary  of  the 
Declaration  of  Independence.  There  was  a card  attached  to  this  wreath, 
and  the  visitor’s  curiosity  was  excited  to  know  the  name  of  the  person 
inscribed  on  it,  who  had  paid  so  thoughful  a tribute  to  the  memory  of 
the  beloved  American  poet.  The  name  proved  to  be  that  of  a man 
who,  prevented  by  proscription  from  setting  foot  on  the  soil  of  the 


214 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’KEILLY. 


British  Islands  of  which  he  was  a native,  had  deputed  a friend  to  do 
what  he  could  not — place  a memorial  tribute  on  the  bust  of  Longfellow. 
The  poet  who  had  stretched  his  hand  across  the  ocean  to  do  this  kindly 
act  was  John  Boyle  O’Reilly.  It  was  his  name  that  marked  the  card. 

On  June  14,  this  year,  O’Reilly  read  his  great  national 
poem  “ America,”  at  the  reunion  of  the  Army  of  the 
Potomac  at  Detroit.  In  it  he  honored,  as  no  other  poet 
has  done,  the  pre-eminent  virtue  of  the  American  people, 
magnanimity  in  victory.  Recalling  the  merciless  triumphs 
of  other  conquerors,  he  wrote : 

Not  thus,  O South ! when  thy  proud  head  was  low, 

Thy  passionate  heart  laid  open  to  the  foe — 

Not  thus,  Virginia,  did  thy  victors  meet 
At  Appomattox  him  who  bore  defeat ; 

No  brutal  show  abased  thine  honored  State : 

Grant  turned  from  Richmond  at  the  very  gate. 

Every  passage  of  the  patriotic  poem  was  greeted  with 
applause  by  the  veterans.  Even  the  impassive  Grant 
himself,  clutching  the  arms  of  his  chair,  leaned  forward  and 
smiled  his  delight.  When  the  poet  had  ceased,  Grant 
spoke  to  President  Devens,  saying,  ‘ ‘ That  is  the  grandest 
poem  I have  ever  heard.”  “ General  Grant,  I would  say 
so  to  O’Reilly  in  person,”  replied  General  Devens.  He 
immediately  did  so,  shaking  the  poet  warmly  by  the  hand 
and  saying,  “I  thank  you.”  This  demonstration,  of 
course,  redoubled  the  applause  of  the  witnesses. 

Among  the  many  tributes  of  praise  paid  him  for  this 
great  poem  were  the  following  letters : 

Danvers,  Mass.,  June  19,  1882. 

John  Boyle  O’Reilly,  Esq. 

Dear  Friend  : I have  read  with  great  satisfaction  thy  noble  poem 
“ America.”  The  great  theme  is  strongly  handled.  It  has  much  poetic 
beauty  as  well  as  a noble  enthusiasm  of  patriotism. 

Thanking  thee  for  sending  it,  I am  very  truly  thy  friend, 

John  G.  Whittier. 

Amesbury,  July  7,  1882. 

296  Beacon  Street,  July  2,  1882. 

My  Dear  Mr.  O’Reilly  : 

I have  never  thanked  you  for  your  spirited  and  patriotic  poem,  which 
was  indeed  worthy  of  the  occasion. 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


215 


All  I have  done  was  to  send  you  a lecture  which  you  need  not  ac- 
knowledge, above  all,  need  not  feel  it  your  duty  to  read. 

I am  thankful  that  you  are  with  us  as  a representative  American- 
ized Irishman. 

Very  truly  yours, 

O.  W.  Holmes. 

O’Reilly’s  prediction  of  the  consequence  of  coercion  in 
Ireland  was  literally  verified.  Early  in  March,  Secretary 
Forster  had  made  the  foolish  threat,  “ When  outrages 
cease  the  suspects  will  be  released.”  The  “outrages,” 
usually  the  most  trifling  of  technical  offenses,  such  as 
whistling  ‘ ‘ Harvey  Duff  ’ ’ and  other  treasonable  airs,  did 
not  cease  ; there  was  nobody,  their  leaders  being  in  jail,  to 
repress  the  discontent  of  the  people.  Unfortunately  for 
the  Irish  cause,  the  inflamed  people,  hunted  and  harassed 
by  the  petty  tyranny  of  constables  and  magistrates,  were 
driven  into  secret  conspiracy,  the  result  of  which  was  the 
awful  tragedy  of  the  Phoenix  Park  murders.  Before  that 
dire  crime  was  committed,  Gladstone  had  recognized  the 
futility  of  his  coercive  policy,  and  ordered  the  release  of 
Parnell,  Dillon,  and  O’ Kelly.  They  were  set  free  on  the  2d 
of  May,  1882.  Lord-Lieutenant  Cowper  and  Chief  Sec- 
retary Forster  resigned  their  offices,  Earl  Spencer  and  Lord 
Frederick  Cavendish  being  respectively  appointed  to  suc- 
ceed them.  An  era  of  conciliation  seemed  to  have  opened  ; 
the  true  friends  of  peace  rejoiced  ; but  there  were  some 
reckless  spirits  to  whom  peace  was  the  least  welcome  of  con- 
ditions. Their  leader  and  subsequent  betrayer  was  James 
Carey,  a man  who  had  held  the  office  of  Town  Councilor  in 
Dublin  and  was  for  a time  locally  prominent  in  the  Land 
League  movement.  Half  a dozen  desperate,  unthinking 
fanatics  plotted  and  carried  out  a scheme  for  the  murder  of 
Under- Secretary  Burke,  an  official  who  had  made  himself 
especially  odious  to  the  people.  On  the  afternoon  of  May 
6,  the  day  of  his  installation  as  Chief  Secretary,  Lord  Fred- 
erick Cavendish,  in  company  with  Burke,  left  Dublin  Castle 
and  walked  through  Phoenix  Park,  to  the  Chief  Secretary’s 
Lodge.  As  they  were  crossing  the  path,  a common  hack- 


216 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


car  drove  up,  and  four  rough-looking  fellows  jumping  from 
their  seats,  rushed  on  the  two  men  with  drawn  knives  and 
stabbed  them  to  death.  They  then  leaped  upon  the  car 
and  drove  rapidly  toward  Chapelizod  Gate,  where  they  dis- 
appeared. It  subsequently  transpired  that  the  assassins 
had  intended  to  kill  only  one  victim,  and  that  Lord  Fred- 
erick was  murdered  either  to  silence  him,  or  because  he  had 
defended  his  companion. 

When  the  news  of  the  crime  reached  America,  nothing 
was  heard  but  horror  and  detestation  of  the  act.  The  Irish- 
Americans  of  Boston  held  a mass  meeting  in  Faneuil  Hall ; 
it  was  called  to  order  by  Mr.  P.  J.  Flatley,  Hon.  P.  A. 
Collins  as  chairman.  O’Reilly  spoke  as  follows  : 

Fellow-Citizens  and  Fellow-Countrymen  : There  is  to  me  more 
of  sorrow  in  this  meeting  than  of  indignation — sorrow  and  grief  for  the 
innocent  hearts  that  are  afflicted  by  the  murderous  blows  of  these 
assassins,  and  these  include  every  Irish  heart  that  throbs  in  Ireland  to- 
day. The  hearts  and  hands  of  the  Irish  people  are  innocent  of  this 
crime.  There  is  not  an  Irish  mark  upon  it.  There  is  no  indication 
here  of  hot  Irish  blood — of  the  sudden  unpremeditated  blow  of  passion 
— of  the  hasty  vengeance  which  ever  marks  the  awful  presence  of 
bloodshed  in  Ireland.  No  Irishman  ever  killed  his  enemy  with  a dag- 
ger. In  all  the  history  of  the  Irish  people  you  cannot  find  an  instance 
in  which  Irishmen  premeditatedly  killed  each  other  with  knives  or  dag- 
gers. The  dagger  never  was  and  never  shall  be  an  Irishman’s  weapon. 
This  assassination  was  coolly  planned  and  was  carried  out  with  intellec- 
tual precaution  and  cruelty.  It  was  perpetrated  within  shadow  of  the 
Lord-Lieutenant’s  house,  the  Viceregal  Lodge,  and  within  a few  hundred 
yards  of  the  Chief  Constabulary  barracks  in  Ireland.  I declare  here 
to-night,  and  confidently  appeal  to  the  future  for  the  verifi- 
cation of  the  assertion,  that  the  deed  was  not  committed  by  the 
Irish  people.  I say  that  it  was  committed  by  the  class  known  as  gentle- 
men. It  was  perpetrated  by  the  class  whose  power  and  livelihood  were 
threatened  by  the  death  of  coercion.  Who  were  these  men  ? The 
office-holders  in  Dublin  Castle,  the  paid  magistrates  who  commanded 
the  military  power,  the  officers  of  the  brutal  constabulary  the  virulent 
“ emergency  men.”  These  were  the  people  to  whom  Lord  Cavendish 
brought  the  message  of  doom.  To  these  men  his  mission  said,  “ Back! 
hold  off  your  whips  and  bayonets  from  the  people  ! Back  with  your 
constabulary  bludgeons  and  swords  ! Your  occupation,  if  not  forever 
gone,  is  to  be  held  in  abeyance.”  This  was  the  meaning  of  the  new 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


217 


policy  of  the  office-holders  and  the  Dublin  Castle  crowd.  These  men, 
hereditary  office-holders,  thriftless,  largely  profligate,  in  danger  of  ab- 
solute beggary  and  arrest  if  dismissed  from  office — these  men,  I say, 
were  the  only  men  in  Ireland  whose  direct  interest  it  was  to  retain  Co- 
ercion, to  destroy  the  new  order  of  Conciliation.  How  could  this  be 
done  ? How  could  they  achieve  this  purpose  ? By  the  commission  of 
an  outrage  that  would  be  laid  at  the  door  of  the  people.  By  the  mur- 
der of  a high  official.  I say,  here  is  a powerful  motive  for  this  awful 
crime — the  only  motive  to  be  found  in  all  the  complex  elements  of  Irish 
life.  I say  there  is  a charge  from  us  against  this  class — a charge  that 
must  be  investigated  and  settled — and  we  are  ready  to  abide  by  the 
settlement.  And  now  for  a word  of  indignation — not  as  an  Irishman 
so  much  as  an  American.  The  infamous  charge  has  been  made  by  a 
portion  of  the  English  press  and  the  coercion  agents  in  Ireland  that 
this  assassination  was  traceable  to  the  Irish  people  in  America.  I read  in 
the  papers  this  morning  that  the  English  Minister  at  Washington  and 
the  English  Consul  in  Boston  and  other  American  cities  had  publicly 
offered  rewards  in  this  country  for  information  relative  to  this  fearful 
crime.  As  a citizen  of  Boston,  I indignantly  protest  against  this  in- 
famous implication  that  some  of  the  citizens  of  our  proud  city  have  a 
guilty  knowledge  of  this  horrible  thing.  I indignantly  protest  against 
the  shameful  implication.  It  is  for  us  Irishmen  to  offer  rewards  not  in 
this  country,  but  among  the  English  coercion  agents  in  Ireland.  De- 
pend on  it  that  the  Irish  people  will  have  to  buy  justice  in  this  matter. 
The  constablery  will  make  no  arrests  among  the  official  class,  unless 
urged  to  do  so  by  enormous  rewards.  Why  should  they  arrest  men 
and  destroy  their  own  power  and  prestige  ? They  see  that  this  crime 
has  served  their  own  purpose.  It  is  for  us  to  offer  rewards,  and  resolve, 
as  we  do  here  to-night,  never  to  rest  until  we  have  hunted  down  these 
assassins,  and  cleared  the  stain  from  the  name  of  Ireland. 

Resolutions  in  accordance  with  the  spirit  of  this  de- 
claration were  passed,  and  a letter  was  read  from  Wendell 
Phillips,  saying : 

Boston,  May  9,  1882. 

Gentlemen  : I am  very  sorry  I cannot  join  you  to-night  in  express- 
ing our  profound  regret  for  the  disastrous  eclipse  which  has  come  over 
Ireland’s  proudest  hour,  and  our  detestation  and  horror  for  this  cruel, 
cowardly,  and  brutal  murder.  No  words  can  adequately  tell  my  sor- 
row for  the  injury  our  cause  has  suffered  or  my  abhorrence  of  this  hid- 
eous crime — a disgrace  to  civilization.  But  it  is  by  no  means  clear 
whether  this  black  act  comes  from  some  maddened  friend  of  Ireland  or 
is  the  cunning  and  desperate  device  of  her  worst  enemies.  Let  us  wait 
for  further  evidence  before  we  consent  to  believe  that  any  Irishman 


218 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 

has  been  stung,  even  by  the  intolerable  wrongs  of  the  last  twenty 
months,  to  such  an  atrocious  crime.  Ireland’s  marvelous  patience  dur- 
ing the  last  twenty  years  entitles  her  to  the  benefit  of  such  a doubt. 
Meanwhile,  let  us  work  patiently  and  earnestly  to  discover  the  real 
state  of  the  case.  It  will  be  ample  time  then  to  analyze  the  occurrence 
and  lay  the  blame  where  it  belongs. 

Very  respectfully  yours, 

Wendell  Phillips. 

An  informal  meeting  of  well-known  Irish-Americans  of 
Boston  had  been  held  on  the  preceding  day,  at  which  it 
was  decided  to  offer  a reward  for  the  arrest  of  the  assas- 
sins, and  the  following  cablegram  was  sent  to  Mr.  Parnell : 

To  Charles  Stewart  Parnell , House  of  Commons , London : 

A reward  of  $5000  (£1000)  is  hereby  offered  by  the  Irishmen  of  Bos- 
ton for  the  apprehension  of  the  murderers,  or  any  of  them,  of  Lord 
Cavendish  and  Mr.  Burke,  on  Saturday,  May  6. 

On  behalf  of  the  Irishmen  of  Boston, 

John  Boyle  O’Reilly, 
Patrick  A.  Collins. 

O’Reilly’s  instincts  were  at  fault,  unfortunately,  when 
he  supposed  that  the  dastardly  deed  had  been  the  work  of 
emergency  men,  or  other  Government  tools.  It  seemed 
incredible  to  him  that  any  men  of  Nationalist  feeling  could 
have  been  blindly  infatuated  enough  to  commit  such  a 
crime  at  such  a time.  The  patriotic  papers  of  Ireland  were 
equally  mistaken  ; the  crime,  like  the  murder  of  President 
Garfield  a year  before,  was  so  utterly  devoid  of  reason, 
viewed  from  the  Nationalist  standpoint,  that  the  theory  of 
its  perpetration  by  emergency  men  seemed  the  only  one 
conceivable.  England’s  response  was  the  immediate  pas- 
sage of  a coercion  law,  although  Mr.  Gladstone  himself  had 
said  two  days  after  the  tragedy,  “ The  object  of  this  black 
act  is  plainly  to  arouse  indignant  passions,  and  embitter 
the  relations  between  Great  Britain  and  Ireland.”  Michael 
Davitt,  who  had  been  released  conditionally,  after  fifteen 
months  of  imprisonment  without  trial,  offered  to  go  to  Ire- 
land and  do  whatever  he  could  “ to  further  the  peaceful 
doctrines  I have  always  advocated,”  and  received  as  his 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


219 


only  reply  from  Sir  William  Yernon  Harcourt,  “ The 
Queen  will  not  accord  a full  pardon  to  Michael  Davitt.” 
The  following  July  Mr.  Gladstone  carried  his  warfare 
on  the  Irish  members  to  the  extent  of  expelling  Mr.  Par- 
nell and  twenty-three  others  from  the  House  of  Commons, 
because  they  had  “obstructed”  the  passage  of  his  Co- 
ercion bill.  The  act  was  prearranged  and  the  victims 
singled  out.  One  of  them  at  least,  Mr.  O’Donnell,  had 
been  absent  from  the  House  all  night,  and  was  therefore 
absolutely  innocent  of  the  alleged  offense.  Sir  Lyon  Play- 
fair, when  challenged  to  show  in  what  way  Mr.  Parnell  had 
obstructed  the  proceedings,  said:  “I  admit,  Mr.  Parnell, 
that  you  have  not  obstructed  the  bill,  or  spoken  much  dur- 
ing its  progress,  but  you  belong  to  the  party  ; I have 
therefore  considered  myself  entitled  to  include  you  in  the 
suspension.”  The  Coercion  bill  was  one  of  the  most  atro- 
cious ever  passed,  even  by  the  English  Parliament ; one  of 
its  clauses  gave  power  to  a judge,  without  a jury,  to  pass 
sentence  of  death  on  any  person  or  persons  for  writing  or 
speaking  what  he  (the  judge)  might  be  pleased  to  consider 
treason.  Mr.  Gladstone  sought  to  have  some  slight  modifi- 
cation incorporated  in  the  bill,  but  the  Tories  united  with 
the  English  Whigs  in  defeating  him.  O’ Reilly  placed  the 
responsibility  where  it  belonged,  when  he  wrote  : 

There  will  be  a day  of  reckoning  for  this,  and  when  it  comes  England 
shall  vainly  invoke  the  pity  she  so  ruthlessly  denies  her  victims  now 
in  the  insolence  of  her  power.  Coercion  will  fail  as  it  has  failed  before, 
but  the  spirit  that  dictated  it  will  be  remembered  ; for  it  is  the  voice  of 
England,  not  of  this  or  that  party ; or,  to  speak  more  accurately,  it  is 
the  voice  of  England’s  rulers. 

The  English  may  be  misled  by  their  rulers  in  this  matter,  for  to-day 
it  is  the  peasantry  of  Ireland  who  are  to  be  dragooned  into  silence. 
To-morrow  it  may  be  those  of  England  or  Scotland.  Always  it  is  the 
people  who  must  be  kept  in  their  place,  that  their  r‘  betters  ” may  be 
left  in  luxury  and  idleness.  God  speed  the  day  when  the  people  shall 
know  and  take  their  true  place  ! That  day  will  come  all  the  sooner 
when  Englishmen  and  Scotchmen  learn  that  the  cause  of  Ireland  is 
their  cause. 

On  July  20  the  cause  of  Irish  patriotism  lost  as  devoted 


220 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


a lover  as  had  ever  lived,  and  sung,  and  literally  consumed 
her  heart  away  in  its  service,  Fanny  Parnell,  sister  of  the 
Home  Rule  leader.  Nearly  a year  previously  she  had 
written  her  greatest  verse,  prophetic  in  its  spirit,  entitled 
“After  Death.”  O’Reilly,  who  had  been  her  warm  friend, 
wrote  for  her  his  beautiful  poem,  “ The  Dead  Singer.” 
In  his  paper  he  wrote  : 

There  was  something  almost  mystical  in  her  nature  and  her  life. 
Like  the  sacred  Pythoness,  unlike  her  own  slight  physical  self,  she  drew 
her  songs  quivering  with  force  and  passion.  Thinking  of  Ireland 
made  her  soul  so  tremulous  with  grief,  and  love,  and  hatred  of  the 
brutal  hand  on  her  country’s  throat,  that  her  body  long  ago  began  to 
suffer  from  the  terrible  strain.  Her  friends  warned  her  that  she  must 
stop  writing,  stop  thinking  ; that  she  must  go  away  from  those  who 
talked  to  her  of  Ireland,  or  brought  her  newspapers  with  Irish  reports. 
She  knew,  too,  herself,  that  her  strength  was  giving  way.  It  is  not 
quite  a year  ago  since  the  poem  ‘ ‘ Post  Mortem  ” was  written.  She 
was  measuring  then  with  her  soul’s  eye  the  distance  to  be  traveled  to 
the  consummation — to  Ireland  free — and  measuring,  too,  her  own 

strength  for  the  journey We  shall  never  be  able  to  read  these 

lines  without  streaming  eyes ; this  unequaled  picture  of  national  love. 

“Ah,  the  tramp  of  feet  victorious ! I should  hear  them 
’Mid  the  shamrocks  and  the  mosses. 

My  heart  should  toss  within  the  shroud  and  quiver 
As  a captive  dreamer  tosses  ; 

I should  turn  and  rend  the  cere  clothes  round  me, 

Giant  sinews  I should  borrow 

Crying,  ‘ Oh,  my  brothers,  I have  also  loved  her, 

In  her  lowliness  and  sorrow. 

Let  me  join  with  you  the  jubilant  procession, 

Let  me  chant  with  you  her  story ; 

Then  contented  I shall  go  back  to  the  shamrocks, 

Now  mine  eyes  have  seen  her  glory.’” 

The  Papyrus  Club  was  old  enough  in  this  year  to  begin 
to  indulge  in  reminiscences.  Since  its  foundation,  in  1872, 
it  had  had  seven  presidents,  of  whom  one,  its  first  and  long- 
mourned  ruler,  Mr.  N.  S.  Dodge,  was  dead.  The  surviving 
ex-presidents  were  Francis  H.  Underwood,  Henry  M.  Rog- 
ers, John  Boyle  O’Reilly,  William  A.  Hovey,  George  M. 
Towle,  and  Alexander  Young.  To  these  poetically  styled 


221 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 

“ veterans,”  the  club  gave  a reception  and  dinner  on  Sat- 
urday, April  1.  O’Reilly  read  on  that  occasion  one  of  his 
brightest  humorous  effusions : 

TO  THOSE  WHO  HAVE  NOT  YET  BEEN  PRESIDENT. 

We  who  have  worn  the  crown  salute  you ! Hail ! 

The  dawn  is  yours,  and  ours  the  sunset  pale ; 

You  are  the  undiscovered  land,  while  we 
Are  stubble-fields  of  old  fertility. 

We  who  have  worn  the  purple!  Ah,  my  friends, 

We  are  the  symbols  of  your  latter  ends. 

We  are  the  yesterdays  ; all  our  glory’s  scenes 
Are  pigeon-holed  just  o’er  the  might-have-beens. 

We  are  the  yellow  leaves,  the  new  year’s  vows 
Left  withering,  yellow,  on  the  young  spring’s  brows, 

Ours  the  glad  sadness  of  the  crown  unmissed, 

The  rich  wine  drunken,  the  sweet  kisses  kissed. 

Therefore,  we  hail  you,  who  in  turn  shall  wear 
The  heavy  crown  that  left  our  temples  bare! 

You  are  the  mine  in  which  the  gold-vein  sleeps  ; 

You  are  the  cloud  from  which  the  lightning  leaps. 

Yes,  friends,  this  honor  comes  to  each  in  time — 

I see  the  faces  changing  in  my  rhyme, 

I see  the  wire-strung  meetings  year  by  year, 

From  which  in  turn  the  chosen  ones  appear. 

First,  pushing  forth  like  corn  in  August  days 
Shoots  the  soft  cone  of  Babbitt’s  budding  bays. 

Then  follows  one,  pressed  forward — modest  man— 

Our  Sullivan — (American  for  Soolivari). 

Two  years,  at  least,  he  rules  the  noisy  whirl 
Ere  to  his  chair  he  leads  the  “ Frivolous  Girl.” 

Then  Crocker  comes  to  rule  our  board  with  law, 

And  Chadwick  knocks  to  order,  with  a saw. 

Here  Dodd  presides,  a lily  at  his  throat, 

Here  Parker  sounds  his  mellow  Gloucester  note  ; 

Here  Howard,  dusty  from  the  Board  of  Trade, 

Wields  the  deft  gavel  his  own  hands  have  made. 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 

Here  ‘ ‘ Rollo  ” comes  from  Cambridge,  led  by  Soule 
And  so  they  come,  a long  and  loving  roll. 

Forward,  like  fishes  to  be  fed,  they  press, 

Some  must  be  first — the  last  are  not  the  less. 

Down  years  remote  the  brilliant  line  I see, 

And  every  face  turns  hitherward — ah  me! 

How  shining  baits  lure  man  as  well  as  maid, 

How  hearts  will  hanker  for  the  things  that  fade ! 

Across  the  coming  century,  thy  line 
Is  stretched,  Papyrus,  and  I see  it  shine 
From  that  far  end,  while  this  end  curtains  drape, 
For  here  stands  Time,  and  winds  the  golden  tape. 

To  you  then,  brethren,  is  our  message  sent 
To  every  embryo  ex-President  : 

“We  salute  you.  While  yet  you  have  us  here 
Treat  us  full  tenderly,  and  hold  us  dear. 

Receive  us  often  at  the  banquet  gay, 

For  our  poor  cup  of  wine,  be  proud  to  pay. 

We  are  your  veterans,  scarred  on  breast  and  brow; 
Let  us  run  this  Club’s  business — we  know  how.” 

And  when  thro’  Time, — say  forty  years  and  nine,— 
We  get  full  fifty  Presidents  in  line, 

Behold,  we  can  outvote  the  younger  men ; 

And  we  shall  bind  them  to  our  service  then. 

In  their  white  faces  on  that  day  we’ll  shake 
The  rule  and  precedent  that  now  we  make ; 

And  we  the  old  presiders,  then  shall  speak, 

Saying,  “ Young  men,  receive  us  every  week” 

And  they  will  gnash  their  teeth,  but  eke  be  dumb, 
While  we  enjoy  our  soft  millenmm. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 


His  Kindness  to  Young  Writers — Versatile  Editorial  Work — Irish 
National  Affairs — Speech  before  the  League — His  Canoeing  Trips 
— A Papyrus  Reunion — Death  of  Wendell  Phillips,  and  O'Reilly's 
Poem — Presidential  Campaign  of  1884 — “The  King’s  Men” — 
Another  Papyrus  Poem — Touching  Letter  to  Father  Anderson. 

IN  December,  1882,  a promising  young  poet,  whose  life 
was  cut  short  in  early  manhood,  James  Berry  Bensell, 
wrote  this  touching  sonnet  to  the  older  poet,  who  had  given 
him  aid  and  encouragement : 

TO  JOHN  BOYLE  O'REILLY. 

As  when  a man  along  piano  keys 
Trails  a slow  hand,  and  then  with  touch  grown  bold 
Strikes  pealing  chords,  by  some  great  master  old 
Woven  into  a gem  of  melodies, 

All  full  of  summer  and  the  shout  of  seas, — 

So  do  thy  rhythmic  songs  my  soul  enfold. 

First  some  sweet  love-note,  full  as  it  can  hold 
Of  daintiness,  comes  like  the  hum  of  bees  ; 

Then,  rising  grandly,  thou  dost  sound  a chord 
That  rings  and  clamors  in  the  heart  of  hearts, 

And  dying  as  receding  waves,  departs 
Leaving  us  richer  by  a lusty  hoard 
Of  noble  thoughts. 

O poet  ! would  that  we 

Might  strike  one  note  like  thine — but  just  for  thee  ! 

I do  not  know  just  how  many  poets  of  his  own  time  have 
given  formal  expression  to  the  grateful  love  which  all  who 
knew  him  bore  toward  John  Boyle  O’Reilly  ; but  among 
those  who  dedicated  volumes  of  verses  to  him  were  David 
Proudfit  (“Peleg  Arkwright”),  Louise  Imogen  Guiney, 
and  Dr.  R.  D.  Joyce. 


223 


224 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


In  January,  1883,  he  wrote  another  of  his  great  poems, 
challenging  the  inequalities  and  injustices  of  the  social 
system,  “ The  City  Streets.”  It  is  full  of  lines  that  fairly 
burn  with  indignation  against  the  wrongs  of  the  helpless 
ones. 

God  pity  them  all  ! God  pity  the  worst  ! for  the  worst  are  lawless  and 
need  it  most. 

The  briefest  summary  of  a few  months  of  his  life  at  this 
period  shows  the  marvelous  versatility  and  working  power 
of  the  man.  His  Pilot  work  was  more  than  that  of  the 
mere  editor,  for  he  was  also  the  leader  and  teacher  of  his 
people ; not  only  did  he  gravely  weigh  and  discuss  the 
interests  of  the  struggling  patriots  at  home,  but  he  devoted 
himself  with  minute  zeal  to  the  defense  and  advancement 
of  his  fellow-exiles.  It  was  a critical,  painful  period.  The 
confession  of  the  informer,  James  Carey,  had  proved  to 
O’Reilly’s  grief  and  chagrin,  that  the  “ murder  club”  of 
the  Phoenix  Park  tragedy  was  not  a fiction  of  Dublin 
Castle’s  imagination,  nor  its  act  the  work  of  emergency 
men.  He  wrote : 

The  wretched  men  who  committed  these  crimes  have  no  perception 
of  the  injury  they  have  inflicted  on  the  cause  of  Ireland.  The  Irish 
people  throughout  the  world  have  raised  voices  of  horror  at  the  atro- 
cious deed.  The  police  murder  of  Irishmen  and  women  and  children 
by  English  law,  occurring  simultaneously  with  the  Phoenix  Park 
crimes,  was  forgotten.  Ireland  and  her  people,  with  one  heart,  repudi- 
ated the  assassination  of  the  Secretaries.  We  ourselves  refused  to  believe 
that  Irishmen  had  committed  a crime  so  dreadful  and  so  purposeless. 
****** 

There  is  an  awful  lesson  both  for  Ireland  and  England  in  the  dis- 
covery of  these  murderers.  It  is  no  victory  for  England  to  lay  bare 
the  abominations  of  her  own  misrule.  She  may  use  the  appalling  fact 
to  justify  still  further  coercion.  Blind,  cruel,  and  fatuous,  will  she 
never  learn  that  such  measures  cannot  have  other  effect  than  to  increase 
secret  retaliation  ? 

The  lesson  for  Ireland  is  one  that  has  been  taught  before.  Secret 
organization  to  commit  violent  crime  is  an  accursed  disease.  It  has 
blighted  Ireland,  under  the  names  of  Ribbonism,  Orangeism,  and 
Whiteboyism.  It  has  blasted  every  country  that  ever  resorted  to  it. 
It  is  the  poison  of  patriotic  action.  Passion  and  ignorance  are  its 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


225 


parents,  and  its  children  are  murder  and  cruel  crime.  The  voice  of 
the  Church  is  always  against  it,  and  the  wise  leaders  of  the  people  have 
everywhere  abhorred  it.  The  country  that  allows  it  to  become  rife, 
which  sympathizes  with  its  dark  deeds,  is  not  fit  for  freedom.  Ire- 
land has  not  so  sympathized. 

It  is  heroic  to  prepare  for  war  with  a tyrant  power.  Patriots  will 
always  win  the  admiration  of  mankind  for  daring  to  meet  the  blood- 
shed of  battle  for  their  country’s  liberty.  But  the  patriot  who  is  will- 
ing to  go  to  that  sacrifice  will  be  the  first  to  condemn  the  aimless  and 
secret  shedding  of  blood  in  time  of  peace. 

Since  the  Land  League  was  put  down  in  Ireland,  the  discontent  of 
the  suffering  people  has  had  no  vent.  Such  a state  of  things  is  always 
full  of  danger.  A smoldering  fire  only  needs  a breath  to  leap  to 
flame.  There  is  the  greater  need  of  precaution.  Irishmen  must  be 
doubly  patient  and  watchful.  The  moment  passion  becomes  the  guide 
and  leader,  there  is  danger  ahead,  and  probably  disgrace  and  death. 
When  we  knew  not  who  committed  these  murders,  we  condemned 
them.  Now  that  it  appears  that  the  assassins  were  a few  passionate 
and  desperate  men,  acting  out  their  own  blind  fury,  regardless  of  the 
honor  of  their  country,  our  condemnation  is  increased.  Men  who  com- 
mit crime  cannot  suffer  and  be  silent  as  patriots  can  who  endure  for  a 
principle  ; as  soon  as  danger  reaches  them  they  become  informers  on 
the  men  they  led  into  the  bloody  business.  Such  men  as  Carey,  stub- 
born, unruly,  and  ferocious,  are  the  leaders  in  these  dark  projects,  and 
they  are  sure  to  shrink  from  the  consequences,  and  buy  their  vile  lives 
at  last  by  the  blood  of  their  dupes. 

A week  later  we  find  him  writing  with  almost  equal 
earnestness  on  a subject  concerning  which  his  attitude  was 
often  either  ignorantly  or  willfully  misunderstood.  His 
own  words,  both  then,  and  subsequently  in  his  great  work 
on  “ Athletics  and  Manly  Sport,”  show  just  how  O’Reilly 
looked  upon  pugilism.  Referring  to  the  Sullivan-Ryan 
prize  fight  at  New  Orleans,  he  said  : 

It  is  undoubtedly  true  that  a wide  and  lively,  if  not  a deep  interest 
was  taken  by  the  men  of  America  in  the  fight  at  New  Orleans,  last 
week,  between  Sullivan  and  Ryan,  Every  paper  in  the  country  pub- 
lished a detailed  report  of  the  contest,  even  though  the  editorial  columns 
condemned  the  affair  as  brutal  and  degrading.  Therefore,  it  is  worth 
considering  why  did  respectable  and  intelligent  people  feel  an  interest 
in  so  unworthy  a struggle,  and  if  there  be  an  element  of  health  in  pugil- 
ism, how  may  it  be  separated  from  the  brutality  and  ruffianism  which 
have  always  characterized  the  English  ‘ ‘ prize  ring  ? ” 


226 


JOHN  BOYLE  0*REILLY. 


A man  familiar  with  the  “ science  ” of  the  ring  said  last  week  that 
the  three  elements  of  a good  boxer  were  courage,  skill,  and  endurance. 
There  certainly  is  no  exercise  more  splendidly  fitted  than  boxing  to 
develop  these  qualities ; and  this  being  granted,  the  popular  instinct  is 
easily  explained. 

But  the  interest  of  respectable  men  in  boxing  is  strictly  confined  to 
these  elements,  which  may  be  seen  and  judged  without  beastly  and 
bloody  struggles.  All  that  is  worth  seeing  in  good  boxing  can  best  be 
witnessed  in  a contest  with  soft  gloves.  Every  value  is  called  out, 
quickness,  force,  precision,  foresight,  readiness,  pluck,  and  endurance. 
With  these  the  rowdy  and  “rough  ” are  not  satisfied.  To  please  their 
taste,  they  must  be  smeared  with  blood,  served  up  with  furious  temper, 
mashed  features,  and  surrounded  by  a reeking  and  sanguinary  crowd. 

The  prize  fight  with  bare  hands  could  only  have  been  developed  in 
England.  It  is  fit  only  for  brutalized  men.  It  belies  and  belittles  real 
skill,  which  has  never  been  and  never  can  be  its  test.  No  prize  fight 
with  bare  hands  was  ever  decided  on  the  merits  of  the  boxing  alone. 
The  end  of  the  controversy  is  to  “ knock  the  other  man  out.”  One 
accidental  or  lucky  blow  with  the  bare  fist  has  often  spoiled  the  chances 
of  the  superior  boxer,  and  gained  the  prize  of  his  opponent. 

We  trust  that  the  fight  in  New  Orleans  will  be  the  last  ever  seen  in 
America  without  gloves.  It  is  highly  to  the  credit  of  the  winning 
man,  John  L.  Sullivan,  that  he  wished  to  fight  with  gloves.  Months 
ago,  both  men  were  asked  to  do  so  ; and  we  are  glad  that  the  better 
man  at  once  agreed.  The  other  refused,  casting  a slur  on  Sullivan’s 
courage,  and  it  has  turned  out  to  his  bitter  cost. 

Again  he  pronounces  his  opinion  on  a widely  different 
subject,  that  of  woman  suffrage,  to  which  he  was  unal- 
terably opposed,  thereby  bringing  down  upon  his  head 
the  following  comment  from  The  Woman's  Journal: 

A poem,  written  by  Minnie  Gilmore  and  addressed  to  women,  has 
appeared  in  the  Boston  Pilot.  It  contains  the  following  couplet : 

“We  need  not  the  poll,  nor  the  platform  ! Strong  words  may 
ring  out  from  the  pen, 

And  leave  us  still  shrined  on  our  hearthstones,  the  ideal  women 
of  men  ! ” 

Fifty  years  ago,  women  who  wrote  and  published  poetry  were  con- 
sidered as  “ Amazonian,”  and  as  far  removed  from  the  “ ideal  women 
of  men  ” as  the  most  ardent  advocate  of  suffrage  is  to-day.  The  ghost 
of  Wendell  Phillips  and  the  living  presence  of  Miss  McCarthy  and  Mrs. 
Parnell  ought  to  rise  up  and  remonstrate  with  Mr.  Boyle  O’Reilly 
against  the  attitude  of  his  paper  on  the  woman  question. 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES.  227 

O’Reilly  called  this  rebuke  “ A Blow  from  a Slipper,” 
and  his  answer  is  one  of  the  best  ever  given  to  the  argu- 
ments of  the  woman  suffragists  : 

We  do  not  surely  deserve  this  harshness.  We  only  agree  with 
Miss  Gilmore  and  Mrs.  Parnell,  and,  if  we  knew  who  Miss  McCarthy 
was,  we  have  no  doubt  that  we  should  agree  with  her,  too. 

We  are  surprised  that  our  e.  c.  should  say  so  wild  a thing  as  that  a 
woman-poet  of  fifty  years  ago  was  looked  upon  as  an  unsexed  creature. 
We  need  not  go  into  details  ; the  names  of  a score  of  brilliant  women, 
in  English  literature  alone,  arise  without  call  to  smile  down  the  asser- 
tion. 

We  sincerely  respect  the  women  who  are  leading  the  suffrage  move- 
ment ; but  our  respect  is  for  the  purity  and  beauty  of  their  characters 
and  lives,  and  not  for  their  social  or  political  judgment.  As  socialists, 
they  do  not  think  scientifically  or  philosophically.  As  pleaders,  they 
fly  to  special  arguments,  and  shirk,  with  amusing  openness,  the  physical 
distinction  which  underlies  the  relations  of  the  sexes. 

Miss  Gilmore  is  right:  “ the  ideal  women  of  men  ” are  not  practical 
politicians  ; and  so  long  as  men  think  as  they  do,  they  never  will  be. 

Women  ought  to  be  fully  guarded  by  law  in  all  rights  of  property, 
labor,  profession,  etc.  ; but,  roughly  stated,  the  voting  population 
ought  to  represent  the  fighting  population. 

A vote,  like  a law,  is  no  good  unless  there  is  an  arm  behind  it  ; it 
cannot  be  enforced.  This  is  a shameful  truth,  perhaps,  but  it  is  true. 
Women  might  change  the  world  on  paper  ; but  the  men  would  run  it 
just  the  same,  if  they  wanted  to,  and  then  we  should  only  have  the 
law  disregarded  and  broken,  and  no  consequent  punishment.  And  the 
name  of  that  condition  is  Anarchy. 

Women  are  at  once  the  guardians  and  the  well-spring  of  the  world’s 
faith,  morality,  and  tenderness  ; and  if  ever  they  are  degraded  to  a 
commonplace  level  with  men,  this  fine  essential  quality  will  be  impaired, 
and  their  weakness  will  have  to  beg  and  follow  where  now  it  guides 
and  controls. 

Woman  suffrage  is  an  unjust,  unreasonable,  unspiritual  abnor- 
mality. It  is  a hard,  undigested,  tasteless,  devitalized  proposition.  It 
is  a half-fledged,  unmusical,  Promethean  abomination.  It  is  a quack 
bolus  to  reduce  masculinity  even  by  the  obliteration  of  femininity.  It 
would  quadruple  the  tongue- wh angers  at  a convention,  without  increas- 
ing the  minds  capable  of  originating  and  operating  legislation.  It 
would  declare  war  on  the  devil  and  all  wickedness,  and  leave  the  citi- 
zens in  shirts  to  do  the  fighting.  It  would  injure  women  physically. 
Who  shall  say  that  at  all  times  they  are  equal  to  the  excitements  of 
caucus  rows,  campaign  slanders,  briberies,  inflammable  speeches,  torch- 


228 


JOHN  BOYLE  o’EEILLY. 


parades,  and  balloting  on  stormy  days  ? How  shall  the  poor  workman’s 
wife  leave  home  to  go  to  the  polls  ? The  success  of  the  suffrage  move- 
ment would  injure  women  spiritually  and  intellectually,  for  they  would 
be  assuming  a burden  though  they  knew  themselves  unable  to  bear  it. 
It  is  the  sediment,  not  the  wave  of  a sex.  It  is  the  antithesis  of  that 
highest  and  sweetest  mystery — conviction  by  submission,  and  conquest 
by  sacrifice.  It  is  the 

But  there,  there — we  do  not  agree  with  the  suffragists  ; and  we  have 
our  reasons  ; no  use  getting  into  a flutter  over  it.  We  want  no  contest 
with  women  ; they  are  higher,  truer,  nobler,  smaller,  meaner,  more 
faithful,  more  frail,  gentler,  more  envious,  less  philosophic,  more 
merciful — oh,  far  more  merciful  and  kind  and  lovable  and  good  than 
men  are.  Those  of  them  that  are  Catholics,  are  better  Catholics  than 
their  husbands  and  sons  ; those  who  are  Protestants  are  better  Chris- 
tians than  theirs. 

Women  have  all  the  necessary  qualities  to  make  good  men  ; but 
they  must  give  their  time  and  attention  to  it  while  the  men  are  boys. 
If  the  rich  ones  don’t,  they  will  have  to  hand  their  work  over  to  poor 
ones  ; and  in  either  case  in  a suffrage  era  voters  would  be  kept  from 
die  polls,  and  from  the  caucus,  and  the  foul  vapors  and  vagaries  of  the 
campaign. 

Fie  upon  it  ! What  do  they  want  with  a ballot  they  can’t  defend  ? 
with  a bludgeon  they  can’t  wield  ? with  a flaming  sword  that  would 
make  them  scream  if  they  once  saw  its  naked  edge  and  understood  its 
symbolic  meaning  ? 

Manifold  and  various  as  his  labors  were,  he  found  time 
in  June  of  this  year  to  perform  one  more  labor  of  love,  in 
writing  a noble  tribute  to  his  friend,  Wendell  Phillips.  It 
took  the  form  of  a letter  to  the  Republican  of  Scranton, 
Pa.  Incidentally  he  speaks  his  warm  praise  of  the  city 
which  was  his  home.  A great  city,  he  calls  it,  “ because 

any  day  you  can  meet  great  men  on  its  streets It 

is  only  one  year  ago,  it  seems,  although  it  must  be  four, 
that  I saw  Mr.  Emerson  and  his  daughter,  who  was  always 
beside  him,  come  into  a liorse-car  that  was  rather  crowded. 
There  was  probably  not  a soul  on  the  car  who  did  not 
know  him.  And  it  is  sweet  to  remember  the  face  of  the 
great  old  philosopher  and  poet  as  he  looked  up  and  met 

the  loving  and  respectful  eyes  around  him And 

Oliver  Wendell  Holmes— every  Bostonian  knows  him. 
The  wise,  the  witty,  the  many-ideaed  philosopher,  poet, 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


229 


physician,  novelist,  essayist,  and  professor  ; but,  best  of 

all,  the  kind,  the  warm  heart Much  as  I love 

Boston,  I am  glad  I was  not  born  in  it ; for  then  I could 
not  brag  of  it  to  strangers  ; at  least  not  with  good  taste  ; 

being  foreign  born  I can — and  I do Boston 

deserves  good  things,  but  Wendell  Phillips  is  too  good  for 
Boston  just  yet.  The  city  will  grow  to  him  in  time.  But 
to  this  day  he  is  like  an  orange  given  to  a baby — Boston 

can  only  taste  the  rind  of  him From  his  first  speech 

in  Faneuil  Hall,  forty-six  years  ago,  to  this  day,  Wendell 
Phillips  has  never  struck  a note  discordant  with  the  rights 
and  interests  of  the  people.  And,  mind  you,  he  was  born 
and  bred  a class  man,  an  aristocrat.  He  had  the  position, 
the  personal  attributes,  that  bind  men  to  the  higher  life 
and  delightful  intercourse  of  the  reserved  and  select.  All 

distinction  was  his But  if  one  begins  to  quote  from 

Wendell  Phillips’s  speeches  it  becomes  a kind  of  intoxi- 
cation and  must  be  abandoned.”  I find  the  same  danger 
in  attempting  to  quote  from  this  masterly  tribute  of  one 
great  man  to  another.  It  touched  the  great-hearted  Aboli- 
tionist, who  replied  : 

June  18,  1888. 

My  Dear  O’Reilly: 

What  shall  I say  for  all  these  pleasant  things  your  kindness 
has  made  you  write  about  me  ? 

If  I were  younger,  I would  fall  back  on  what  Windham  said  to  old 
Sam  Johnson’s  praise,  “ to  be  remembered  not  as  having  deserved  it, 
but  that  I may.” 

Three  score  and  ten,  though,  cannot  indulge  in  much  hope  of 
improvement,  even  with  such  gracious  stimulus. 

The  thing  I can  frankly  say  is,  how  glad  I am  that  you  thought  of 
bringing  in  the  old  letter  of  1882 ; I very  much  like  to  have  my  word  go 
on  record  with  the  rest  of  you  against  Gladstone  and  Bright. 

But  this  is  so  far  from  being  the  first  time  you  have  brought  me  into 
your  debt  that  I may  as  well  stop  trying  to  pay. 

Yours  cordially, 

Wendell  Phillips. 

uThe  old  letter  of  1882,”  to  which  he  refers,  was  one 
written  by  him  to  express  his  horror  at  the  murder  of 


230 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


Cavendish  and  Burke,  the  keynote  of  which  was  the 
characteristic  declaration:  “Othello  was  deeply  guilty; 
but  the  devilish  Iago  who  crazed  him  was  more  guilty 
still.” 

There  had  been  a recurrence  of  the  dynamite  outrages 
in  London  during  the  month  of  March.  Several  men  were 
arrested, — some  probably  guilty,  many  certainly  innocent. 
“Why  does  not  the  Pilot  sternly  denounce  the  dreadful 
Irish  dynamite  policy?”  asked  a correspondent,  and 
O’Reilly  answered  that  he  was  tired  of  “sternly  de- 
nouncing,” especially  when  his  denunciations  were  used 
to  justify  and  intensify  the  still  more  dreadful  English 
policies  applied  to  Ireland.  He  continued  : 

Where  are  the  men  who  always  denounced  violence  and  could  do 
it  more  effectively  than  any  other  ? Where  is  Michael  Davitt  to-day, 
that  his  voice  is  not  heard  ? Where  is  T.  M.  Healy,  one  of  the  best 
Irish  representatives  ? Where  is  Timothy  Harrington,  M.P.  for  West- 
meath, a man  whose  word  was  respected  throughout  Ireland  ? 

These  men  are  all  in  English  prisons,  treated  like  dogs,  compelled 
to  perform  the  lowest  servile  labor,  herded  with  criminals  and  “pun- 
ished ” with  days  of  bread  and  water  for  protesting  against  the  “dread- 
ful ” outrages  perpetrated  on  them,  and  through  them  on  the  nation 
they  represent. 

We  are  sick  of  denouncing  our  own  people.  The  English  papers 
threaten  a race  war  against  the  Irish  in  England.  Bah ! let  them  try 
it.  There  are  a million  English  and  their  friends  in  Ireland  who  are 
dearer  to  the  English  Government  than  the  two  or  three  million  Irish 
in  England.  If  retaliation  is  going  to  be  legitimized,  and  necks  are 
going  to  be  wrung  on  either  side,  Ireland  has  a decided  advantage. 

But  we  do  not  believe  the  English  “ people”  are  so  bitterly  stirred 
up  against  the  Irish  for  their  agitation  nor  even  for  their  loudest  pro- 
tests. The  English  aristocracy  are  just  brainless  enough  to  attempt  to 
ferment  passionate  divisions  among  the  races.  But  they  will  only 
bring  sorrow  on  their  own  heads. 

For  a dozen  years  past,  we  have  done  our  share  of  ‘ ‘ denouncing  ” 
violence  ; and  we  have  always  been  in  earnest.  We  have  tried  to  gener- 
ate a public  Irish- American  sentiment  of  conservative  and  moral  agita- 
tion. What  good  has  been  done  by  it  ? Every  indication  of  quietude 
on  the  Irish  side  has  been  seized  on  by  the  English  as  a sign  of  yielding. 
Coercion  on  top  of  coercion  has  been  the  answer  to  Irish  mildness. 

Irishmen  of  the  conservative  and  moral-force  idea  have  had  the 
leading  word  for  years ; and  the  response  of  England  has  been,  and  is, 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


231 


the  most  wicked,  destructive,  and  “dreadful  policy”  she  has  ever 
pursued  toward  Ireland. 

England  has  made  O’Donovan  Rossa  and  all  the  rest  of  the  dyna- 
miters, and  now  she  must  make  the  best  of  them.  We  refuse  to  help 
her  by  any  more  “ denunciation.”  When  she  had  Rossa  chained  like 
a wild  beast  in  the  dark  cells  of  Millbank  and  Portland  she  was  sowing 
the  seeds  of  the  dreadful  “policy  of  dynamite ” that  scares  her  now  for 
her  palaces. 

She  is  sowing  similar  seed  to-day.  She  will  reap  the  harvest  of  the 
hatred  and  despair  she  is  planting  in  the  hearts  of  unjustly  imprisoned 
men  like  Davitt,  Healy,  Harrington,  and  Quinn. 

A convention  of  the  Irish  National  League  of  America, 
the  greatest  of  its  kind  ever  held  in  this  country,  took 
place  at  Philadelphia,  on  April  25,  nearly  twelve  hundred 
delegates  being  present,  representing  all  the  States  and 
Territories  of  the  Union,  and  also  the  provinces  of  Canada. 
O’  Reilly  attended  the  convention  unofficially  ; he  never 
sought  or  held  any  office  in  the  various  national  organiza- 
tions which  he  supported  so  warmly  with  pen  and  purse. 
He  was  equally  averse  to  accepting  political  honors. 
He  had  been  offered  the  nomination  as  auditor  on  the 
•Democratic  ticket  in  Massachusetts  in  1878,  but  declined 
the  honor.  In  the  national  election  of  1888  he  did  accept 
the  honorary  position  of  elector-at-large.  He  showed  his 
independence  in  politics  by  advocating  the  re-election 
of  Governor  Butler,  despite  the  secession  of  many  Demo- 
crats, as  he  had  previously  favored  the  nomination  of  Dr. 
Green,  for  Mayor  of  Boston.  He  was  not  always  regarded 
as  a “ safe  ” man  by  politicians  ; he  had  a conscience. 

On  the  12th  of  July  of  this  year,  dear  to  the  hearts  of 
Orangemen  as  the  anniversary  of  the  Battle  of  the  Boyne, 
a new  significance  was  given  to  the  day  by  the  Irisli-Amer- 
icans  of  Massachusetts,  who  held  their  State  convention  in 
Faneuil  Hall.  The  meeting  was  called  to  order  by  John 
Boyle  O’  Reilly,  who  said,  among  other  things  : 

I recognize  in  this  meeting  a symbolic  and  a unique  purpose. 
Twelve  years  ago  this  day,  in  a great  American  city,  about  this  time  in 
the  morning,  the  militia  regiments  were  called  out  to  protect  the  peace, 
because  the  lives  and  property  of  the  great  city  were  in  danger  from  an 


232 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


imported  Irish  abomination  and  nuisance.  On  that  day,  about  this 
hour,  three  regiments  in  New  York  fired  on  the  people,  and  forty-four 
persons  were  killed  and  two  hundred  and  twenty  men  and  women 
were  wounded.  If  it  be  asked  in  America,  What  is  the  National  Irish 
agitation  doing,  or  what  it  has  done  ? I answer  that,  for  one  thing,  it 
has  forever  prevented  the  possibility  of  the  recurrence  of  such  a 
dreadful  and  disgraceful  event  as  that.  Within  a dozen  years  the  old 
rancor  and  evil  blood  have  been  obliterated  from  our  national  life, 
and  whatever  we  import  from  Ireland  in  the  future  will  not  be  divided 
and  hateful  as  it  has  been  in  the  past.  The  County  Monaghan  election 
the  other  day  saw  the  men  who  were  opposed  to  each  other  in  New 
York  twelve  years  ago  go  to  the  polls  to  vote  for  the  national  candi- 
date as  brothers.  The  selection  of  this  day  is  symbolic.  On  the  12th 
of  July,  it  used  to  be  the  English  custom  to  inflame  the  religious  divi- 
sions invented  by  themselves,  to  show  they  ruled  us  by  our  differ- 
ences. For  hundreds  of  years  they  kept  up  the  inflammation ; but  the 
old  wound  is  cured  forever. 

It  may  be  asked  why  hundreds  of  business  men  should  leave  their 
own  business  to  come  to  this  great  American  Hall,  whose  very  walls 
are  holy  with  traditions  of  liberty;  it  may  be  wondered  that  hundreds 
of  business  men  should  come  here  to  this  busy  center,  with  the  markets 
roaring  outside  the  windows,  to  discuss  Irish  politics.  I say,  if  we 
came  here  only  for  Irish  purposes  we  should  have  no  business  in 
Farieuil  Hall— but  we  have  come  here  for  great  American  and  humani- 
tarian purposes.  We  have  come  here  to  prevent  the  repetition  of  such 
a scene  of  shame  as  that  which  happened  in  New  York  on  the  12th  of 
July,  1871;  to  prevent  such  an  iniquity  as  that  of  importing  paupers 
from  the  Irish  subject  country;  to  destroy  the  wicked  and  ruinous 
drain  on  the  finances  of  the  people  of  this  country,  which  are  sent 
every  year  to  fill  the  pockets  of  the  rack-renting  landlords  of  Ireland ; 
and  to  take  such  measures  as  are  best  calculated  to  win  to  our  cause 
our  fellow-citizens  and  the  entire  American  race.  We  can  do  this 
by  appealing  to  the  justice  and  to  the  intelligence  of  our  fellow- 
citizens.  It  will  be  our  first  duty  to  prevent  American  citizens 
from  misunderstanding  the  purposes  of  the  Irish  National  move- 
ment, and  from  believing  the  misrepresentations  of  the  English  papers 
and  their  agents  in  this  country.  It  is  our  duty  to  make  it  known  to 
America  that  the  National  League  is  based  on  a reverence  for  law  and 
order,  and  we  hope  to  win  for  our  cause  the  conscientious  conviction 
of  every  good  man  in  America,  no  matter  of  what  race. 

The  old  intolerant  spirit  which  had  found  expression  in 
the  shibboleth,  “No  Irish  need  apply,”  was  not  yet  quite 
dead  in  Massachusetts ; indeed,  it  had  rather  become  inten- 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


233 


sified  this  year  by  the  fact  that  the  Irish- Americans  had 
so  generally  supported  Governor  Butler.  There  were  two 
or  three  conspicuous  instances  in  which  O’Reilly’s  direct 
interference  prevented  the  perpetration  of  rank  injustice. 
One  of  these  was  the  case  of  a child,  daughter  of  a poor 
Irish  woman,  whom  a rich  business  man  attempted  to  steal 
from  her  mother  under  the  legal  fiction  of  “ adoption.”  A 
society,  which  should  have  protected  the  mother  in  her 
rights,  used  its  influence  to  aid  the  wrong.  The  law  itself 
was  invoked  and  misused.  As  a last  resort,  some  friends 
of  the  mother  laid  the  case  before  the  editor  of  the  Pilot , 
who  investigated  the  matter  personally,  and  compelled  the 
charitable  society  and  the  rich  man  whose  claim  it  had  sup- 
ported, to  recede  from  their  iniquitous  attempt,  and  restore 
the  child  to  its  mother.  There  were  other  cases,  many  of 
them,  which  cannot  be  rehearsed  without  inflicting  needless 
punishment  upon  those  who  had  perpetrated  the  acts  of  in- 
tolerance, only  to  repent  when  called  to  account  before 
the  informal  court  of  justice  which  was  held  in  the  Pilot 
editorial  room. 

O’Reilly  made  his  first  extended  canoe  cruise  in  July  of 
this  year.  During  the  previous  summer  he  had  made  a 
short  trip  down  the  Merrimac  River,  from  Lawrence  to  New- 
buryport,  Mass.,  thence  through  Plum  Island  and  Anis- 
quam  rivers  to  Gloucester.  Previous  to  that  his  boating 
had  all  been  done  in  an  outrigger  on  the  Charles  River. 
The  canoe,  unquestionably  the  most  delightful  of  all  pleas- 
ure craft,  won  his  instant  admiration.  With  his  friend 
Dr.  Guiteras,  he  started  for  the  headwaters  of  the  Connec- 
ticut River,  on  the  15th  of  July,  1883.  They  had  made 
their  preparations  for  a long  and  enjoyable  voyage  down  to 
the  mouth  of  the  river  ; but  they  had  not  reckoned  on  the 
timber  rafts,  whose  peculiarities  he  humorously  describes 
in  the  account  of  his  trip  incorporated  in  his  book  of  Ath- 
letics. The  day  after  his  departure  from  Boston,  I received 
the  following  laconic  telegram  : 

Spilled.  Send  two  double  paddles  to  Holyoke,  first  express,  Don’t 
mention. 


234 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


Nobody,  on  this  side  of  the  water,  has  ever  written  such 
charming  books  about  this  charming  sport  as  O’Reilly. 
English  readers  had  learned  something  of  its  delights 
through  the  pleasant  books  of  Mr.  MacGregor,  and  Robert 
Louis  Stevenson’s  incomparable  ‘‘Inland  Voyage”  has 
made  the  sport  immortal  ^n  literature.  O’Reilly’s  enjoy- 
ment of  canoeing  was  almost  as  intensely  mental  as  physi- 
cal. There  only  was  he  absolutely  free  ; away  from  all 
the  stifling  conventionalities  of  life ; divested  of  profes- 
sional cares ; joyful  in  the  simplest  of  raiment ; more  joyful 
yet  when  he  could  shed  even  that  for  hours,  swimming  be- 
hind his  canoe,  or,  as  he  called  it,  “coasting  ” down  the  long 
stretch  of  swift-running  water  ; sleeping  on  the  softest  of 
all  beds,  the  mossy  carpet  of  a pine  grove  ; basking 
bareheaded  in  the  sun,  half  a day  at  a stretch,  letting  the 
tense  nerves  relax,  and  the  overworked  brain  lie  fallow ; 
drinking  in  the  pure  air  of  the  glorious  country ; 
living,  in  short,  for  a brief,  sweet  hour,  the  natural  life 
which  all  sane  men  love.  There  is  no  other  joy  in  life 
equal  to  this ; neither  honor,  nor  fame,  nor  riches  ; for  to  a 
properly  constituted  mind  there  is  pleasure  even  in  its  dis- 
comforts. This,  perhaps,  needs  a qualification  ; the  pleas- 
ure is  found  only  by  those  to  whom  the  joys  are  a rare 
luxury. 

O’Reilly  canoed  the  Merrimac,  the  Connecticut,  the 
Delaware,  the  Susquehanna,  and  the  wild  depths  of  the 
Dismal  Swamp.  He  wrote  of  his  adventures  with  what 
some  thought  poetic  exaggeration  ; but  this  was  an  injus- 
tice. All  canoeists  feel  the  same  delight,  according  to 
their  capacity  for  feeling  ; but  he  had  the  gift  of  express- 
ing it. 

His  Papyrus  Club  had  another  red-letter  night  in  this 
year,  when  the  ex-presidents  held  a memorial  festival  at 
the  old  place  of  its  birth,  Park’s  Tavern,  on  Saturday,  May 
19.  O’Reilly  read  a poem,  which  he  entitled  “ Alexander 
Young’s  Feast,”  beginning: 

Why  are  we  here,  we  graybeards  ? what  is  this  ? 

What  Faust  among  us  brings  this  old-time  bliss, 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


235 


This  dish  of  dear  old  memories  long  gone  by, 

And  sets  it  here  before  us, — like  that  pie, 

That  dainty  dish  whose  every  blackbird  sings. 

Ah  me  ! It  minds  us  we  have  all  been  kings. 

After  some  mock-heroic  references  to  the  Papyrian 
dynasty,  he  continues : 


Aye,  aye,  we  wander  ! we  are  garrulous  grown  ! 
How  strange — in  Billy  Park’s — we  eight  alone — 
(“  Alone  ” is  Irish  for  no  more,  to-night  ; 

’Tis  better  to  be  Irish  than  be  right.) 


“All  are  here,”  he  says  ; then,  as  if  remembering  for 
the  first  time  their  well-beloved  first  president,  Dodge,  he 
says : 


Hush  ! One 

Is  absent, — he  the  merriest,  he  the  youngest.  Where 
Is  that  dear  friend  who  filled  this  empty  chair  ? 

One  vacant  place  ! Alas,  the  years  have  sped ! 

That  gulf  was  bridged  with  rainbow  and  ’tis  fled. 

Ah,  boys,  we  can’t  go  back ! that  chair  forbids— 

But  to  his  memory  now,  with  brimming  lids, 

We  drink  a toast, — “May  he  with  genii  dwell  ! ” 
And  when  we  go  may  we  be  loved  as  well. 
****** 
We  have  been  generals, — what  is  now  our  style  I 
Old  stagers  we  to  form  new  rank  and  file ; 

Or  have  we  any  meaning,  but  to  meet, 

Like  ancient  villagers,  with  tottering  feet, 

Who  love  to  sit  together  in  the  sun, 

With  senile  gossip  till  their  day  is  done  ? 


And  so  the  verses  run  on,  through  good-humored  non- 
sense and  banter,  all  of  a personal  character,  and  ‘ ‘ not 
intended  for  publication,”  winding  up  with  an  absurd 
transition  to  plain  prose. 

On  Friday,  January  18,  1884,  John  Edward  Kelly,  one 
of  the  Hougoumont  political  convicts,  died  in  the  City 
Hospital,  Boston,  in  the  prime  of  his  manhood.  He  was 
one  of  the  Irish  Protestants  who  had  fought  bravely  in  the 
brief  Fenian  uprising.  A native  of  Kinsale,  Ireland,  he 
had  emigrated  with  his  parents  to  Nova  Scotia  in  early 
youth,  and,  while  still  a lad,  came  to  Boston.  In  1863  he 


236 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


connected  himself  with  the  Fenian  movement  in  that  city, 
and  three  years  later  went  over  to  Ireland  and,  together 
with  Peter  O’ Neil  Crowley  and  Captain  McClure,  headed 
the  revolt  in  the  County  Limerick.  He  and  his  two  asso- 
ciates were  at  last  surrounded  by  three  hundred  English 
soldiers  in  Kilclooney  Wood,  where  Crowley  was  shot  dead 
and  the  two  others  made  prisoners. . He  was  tried  for  high 
treason  and  received  the  barbarous  sentence,  which  only 
one  civilized  country  had  retained  on  its  statute  books, — 
“ to  be  hanged,  drawn,  and  quartered,” — which  meant  to 
be  drawn  on  a hurdle  to  the  gallows,  to  be  hanged,  but 
not  “ hanged  to  death.”  The  half -strangled  man  was  to 
be  cut  down,  disemboweled,  and  his  entrails  burned  while 
he  was  yet  alive,  after  which  he  was  to  be  beheaded  and 
his  body  cut  into  quarters.  Kelly’s  sentence  was  com- 
muted to  life  imprisonment,  and  he  was  sent  with  the  other 
political  prisoners  to  Western  Australia.  The  hardships 
which  he  had  to  endure  while  working  in  the  road-parties 
of  the  penal  settlement  broke  down  his  health,  and  in 
March,  1871,  he  and  other  political  prisoners  were  set  free. 
The  National  League  of  Boston  erected  a monument,  in  the 
shape  of  an  Irish  round  tower,  over  liis  grave  in  Mt.  Hope 
Cemetery,  and  formally  dedicated  it  on  November  23,  1885. 
O’Reilly  delivered  one  of  his  noblest  orations  on  that 
occasion,  the  full  text  of  which  will  be  found  elsewhere  in 
this  volume. 

The  death  of  Wendell  Phillips,  on  Saturday  evening, 
February  2,  1884,  was  a personal  bereavement  to  O’Reilly. 
As  the  death  of  the  Fenian  hero,  Kelly,  was  to  evoke  one 
of  O’Reilly’s  greatest  orations,  so  that  of  Wendell  Phillips 
became  the  inspiration  of  a poem  so  full  of  tender  feeling 
and  noble  eulogy  as  to  rank  among  the  best  of  its  kind  in 
the  language.  He  wrote  it  within  six  hours.  It  came  from 
his  brain,  or  rather  from  his  heart,  full-formed  and  per- 
fect, so  that  he  made  scarcely  a single  change  in  republish- 
ing it  with  his  last  collection. 

The  poem  received  well-merited  i>raise  from  critics  who 
had  not  unlearned  the  Id-fashioned  principle  of  deeming 


237 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 

the  poetic  thought  more  valuable  than  its  verbal  clothing. 
Whittier  wrote : 

Danvers,  February  7,  1884. 

Dear  Friend  : 

I heartily  thank  thee  for  thy  noble  verse  on  Wendell  Phillips.  It 
is  worthy  of  the  great  orator. 

Thine  truly, 

John  G.  Whittier. 

Geo.  W.  Cable,  the  great  Southern  novelist,  sent  him 
his  meed  of  praise  from  : 

Hartford,  Conn.,  February  11, 1884. 

My  Dear  Mr.  O’Reilly  : 

I am  confined  to  a sick  chamber,  and  for  the  most  of  the  time  to  my 
bed,  though  daily  recovering ; but  I cannot  refrain  from  writing  you 
to  thank  you  for  and  to  congratulate  you  on  your  superb  poem  on 
Wendell  Phillips.  I had  the  pleasure  to  see  it  this  morning  copied  in 
the  Hartford  Courant  and  read  it  to  Mark  Twain,  who  was  at  my  bed- 
side,— or  rather  whom  I called  from  the  next  room  to  my  bedside  to 
hear  it.  Once,  while  I was  reading  it,  he  made  an  actual  outcry  of 
admiration,  and  again  and  again  interjected  his  commendations.  I am 
proud  to  know  the  man  who  wrote  it ; he  can  quit  now,  his  lasting 
fame  is  assured.* 

I must  stop  this  letter — have  not  much  head  as  yet. 

Yours  truly, 

Geo.  W.  Cable. 

Judge  Chamberlain,  the  scholarly  librarian  of  the  Boston 
Public  Library,  wrote  at  a later  date  : 

Of  “Wendell  Phillips”  I had  formed  a high  opinion.  The  copy — 
a newspaper  cutting — is  ever  by  my  side.  The  more  I see  it  the  more 
I think  it  a great  poem. 

It  is  an  interesting  fact  that  only  one  of  Phillips’s  mar- 
velous lectures  had  ever  been  fully  written  out.  That  was 
in  its  author’s  opinion  “the  best  he  could  do,” — his  great 
tribute  to  Daniel  O’  Connell.  He  gave  the  manuscript  of  it 
to  O’  Reilly,  in  1875,  immediately  after  its  delivery  at  the 
O’Connell  Centenary  celebration  in  Boston.  Perhaps  the 

* The  asterisk  refers  to  the  following  foot-note  : “ Doubtless  it  was  assured 
before,  but  this  poem  will  always  shoot  above  your  usual  work  like  the  great 
spire  in  the  cathedral  town.” 


238 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 

most  remarkable  tribute,  in  its  way,  paid  to  O’Reilly’s 
poem  on  Phillips,  was  the  invitation  gravely  extended  to 
him  by  the  city  government  of  Boston  to  write  another 
poem  on  the  same  subject  for  the  memorial  services  held 
by  the  city  in  the  following  April ! 

A great  mass  meeting  of  Irish- Americans  was  held  in 
the  Boston  Theater  on  Sunday  evening,  February  17,  1884, 
to  hear  an  address  from  John  E.  Redmond,  M.P.  for  New 
Ross,  County  Wexford.  Rev.  P.  A.  McKenna,  of  Hudson, 
Mass.,  opened  the  meeting  and  introduced  John  Boyle 
O’Reilly  as  chairman,  who  commenced  his  address  by 
saying : 

I am  compelled  to  remember  that  the  last  time  an  Irish  member  of 
the  English  Parliament  addressed  a Boston  audience,  an  illustrious 
man  filled  the  place  that  I now  occupy,  —a  man  of  true  heart  and  elo- 
quent lips,  whom  we  looked  upon  dead  in  Faneuil  Hall  the  other  day. 
We  laid  flowers  beside  his  beautiful  dead  face  that  evening  ; but  from 
this,  the  first  great  meeting  of  Irish-Americans  since  his  death,  we  can 
take  another  tribute  and  lay  it  on  his  grave  in  the  Granary  burial- 
ground,  an  offering  that  will  be  richer  and  sweeter  than  floral  tributes — 
our  love,  our  sorrow,  and  our  gratitude.  You  remember,  when  he 
addressed  the  leader  of  the  Irish  National  party  on  a Boston  platform 
a few  years  ago,  how  he  impressively  said  : “I  have  come  to  see  the 
man  who  has  made  John  Bull  listen.” 

One  man  needs  men  behind  him  to  make  John  Bull  listen,  and 
Parnell  has  had  a few  men — but  all  of  them  true  men  and  young  men — 
from  the  beginning  of  his  national  agitation.  A great  man  has  said, 
“Give  me  nine  young  men  and  I will  make  or  unmake  an  empire.” 
Parnell  has  had  less  than  nine  men  at  a time,  rarely  more  than  twice 
nine,  but  they  were  all  young  men.  Ireland  is  now  showing  the  world 
that  her  young  men  cannot  only  lead  regiments,  but  compel  senates. 
It  is  remarkable  that  never  before  in  the  history  of  nations  has  there 
been  a great  political  national  agitation,  a great  intellectual  movement 
against  an  oppressive  government,  impelled  and  controlled  by  young 
men.  It  is  a wonderful  thing  that  hardly  a single  man  who  leads  or  is 
foremost  in  the  movement  of  the  Irish  National  party  has  yet  seen 
forty  years,  and  many  of  them  have  not  seen  thirty  years.  An  easy 
task,  it  may  be  said,  they  have  undertaken  ; but  not  so.  They  have 
undertaken  a task  of  ultimate  statesmanship — that  of  winning  with  the 
minority,  and  they  have  won.  Ireland  has  learned  the  golden  lesson 
that  what  she  lacks  in  the  weight  of  her  sword,  she  must  put  into 
its  temper. 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


239 


The  presidential  campaign  this  year  was  conducted 
with  more  than  common  vigor  on  both  sides.  The  Repub- 
lican National  Convention,  held  at  Chicago  early  in  June, 
had  nominated  Blaine  and  Logan.  O’Reilly  warmly  advo- 
cated the  selection  by  the  Democrats  of  General  Butler  as 
the  head  of  their  ticket.  Mr.  Blaine’s  popularity  with 
Irish-Americans,  though  much  overrated,  was  strong 
enough,  as  it  seemed  to  O’Reilly,  to  make  the  nomination 
of  any  Democrat,  not  especially  popular  with  that  element, 
a dangerous  thing  for  the  party.  Grover  Cleveland  had 
given  offense  to  many  people  while  Governor  of  New 
York ; heliad  made  powerful  enemies  in  the  local  Demo- 
cratic organizations  ; it  was  feared  they  would  take  their 
revenge  should  he  be  made  the  party’s  candidate  in  the 
general  election.  O’Reilly’s  preference  was  for  Butler  or 
Bayard,  the  latter  statesman  not  having  as  yet  appeared 
on  any  stage  large  enough  to  display  his  own  littleness. 
The  Convention  nominated  Cleveland,  whereupon  O’Reilly, 
who  had  opposed  his  selection  up  to  the  last  moment,  and 
still  thought  it  an  unwise  one,  accepted  the  situation 
frankly  and  loyally,  saying : 

We  opposed  the  nomination  of  Cleveland,  the  candidate  ; we  shall 
faithfully  and  earnestly  work  for  the  election  of  Cleveland,  the  Demo- 
cratic standard  bearer. 

The  Democratic  principle  is  the  Democratic  party  ; and  this  is 
infinitely  greater  than  the  men  it  selects  or  rejects.  It  involves  much 
more  than  the  personal  likes  or  dislikes  of  individuals.  Not  the 
interests  of  present  men  alone,  but  the  future  of  American  liberty  is 
bound  up  with  the  preservation  of  the  Democratic  party.  Those  who 

wish  to  abide  by  its  principles  must  not  follow  wandering  fires 

To  the  dissatisfied  ones  we  say,  as  we  have  said  to  ourselves  : “ Look 
round  and  see  where  you  are  going  if  you  leave  the  Democratic 
fold.” 

If  his  political  prescience  had  been  at  fault,  as  it  assur- 
edly was  in  the  case  of  Mr.  Bayard,  his  party  fealty  was 
firm  and  sincere.  He  combated  the  efforts  of  Mr.  Blaine’s 
supporters  to  capture  the  “ Irish  vote”  by  representing 
that  statesman  in  the  role  of  “ a friend  to  an  Irishman.” 
Mr.  Blaine’s  besetting  sin  of  indecision  helped  as  much  as 


240 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


anything  else  to  avert  the  threatened  stampede  of  Irish 
voters  and  insured  his  defeat  at  almost  the  last  moment, 
when  he  did  not  dare  rebuke  the  bigoted  minister  Bur- 
chard  for  his  famous  utterance  concerning  “ Rum,  Roman- 
ism, and  Rebellion.” 

Courage,  moral  and  physical,  was  never  lacking  in  the 
make-up  of  John  Boyle  O’Reilly.  He  had  conscientiously 
opposed  the  nomination  of  Mr.  Cleveland  ; he  as  conscien- 
tiously supported  the  nomination  when  made,  and,  as  we 
shall  see,  no  critic  was  more  severe  or  outspoken  in  de- 
nouncing the  mistakes  and  faults  of  Mr.  Cleveland’s  admin- 
istration. That  which  he  wrote  in  the  middle  of  the  cam- 
paign of  1884  is  a good  explanation  of  why  Irish-Americans 
are  mainly  Democrats  in  politics.  The  question  of  race  had 
not  been  introduced  into  the  contest  by  him  nor  by  the 
Democratic  party ; but  as  the  issue  had  been  raised, 
O’Reilly  justly  defended  the  party  to  which  his  country- 
men owed  gratitude  for  past  friendship. 

“ Irish-Americans  have  been  Democrats,”  he  said,  “not 
by  chance,  but  by  good  judgment.  Tried  in  the  fires  of 
foreign  tyranny,  their  instincts  as  well  as  their  historical 
knowledge  of  Jeffersonian  Democracy,  led  them  to  the 
American  party  that  expressed  and  supported  the  true 
principles  of  Republican  Government.  Experience  has 
shown  them  that  their  selection  was  good.  Every  assault 
on  their  rights  as  citizens  in  this  country  has  come  from  the 
Republican  party  and  its  predecessors  in  opposition,  and  in 
all  these  assaults  the  Democracy  has  been  their  shield  and 
vindication We  do  not  want  to  see  Irish-Ameri- 

cans all  on  one  side  ; but  we  want  to  see  them  following 
principles  and  not  will-o’-the-wisps.  We  want  to  see  them 
conscientiously  and  intelligently  right,  whichever  side  they 
take.” 

Intelligent  Democrats  everywhere  admitted  that  to  John 
Boyle  O’Reilly  and  Hon.  Patrick  A.  Collins  was  due  the 
frustration  of  a very  able  attempt  to  turn  Irish- American 
voters  to  the  Republican  party. 

The  regular  Irish  National  League  Convention  was  held 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES.  241 

in  Faneuil  Hall,  on  August  13,  President  Alexander  Sul- 
livan, of  Chicago,  presiding.  Two  Irish  parliamentary 
delegates,  Thomas  Sexton  and  William  E.  Redmond,  were 
present,  both  at  the  convention  and  at  the  monster  meeting 
held  on  the  15th  in  the  hall  of  the  New  England  Manufac- 
turers’ Institute,  where  nearly  20,000  people  assembled. 
O’  Reilly  took  an  active  but  unofficial  part  in  the  organiza- 
tion of  both  meetings.  Patrick  Egan  was  elected  to  suc- 
ceed Mr.  Sullivan  as  President  of  the  League. 

In  the  same  month  appeared  a curious  novel,  from  which 
I have  quoted  in  the  account  of  his  prison  life  at  Dartmoor, 
“ The  King’s  Men,”  written  by  four  authors,  John  Boyle 
O’Reilly,  Robert  Grant,  Frederic  J.  Stimson  (“  J.  S.  of 
Dale”),  and  John  T.  Wheelwright.  The  authors  received 
$5000  for  the  work,  which  was  said  to  have  increased  the 
circulation  of  the  Boston  Globe , in  which  it  appeared  seri- 
ally, to  the  extent  of  thirty  thousand  subscribers.  The 
book  was  a literary  curiosity,  but  so  well  had  the  several 
authors  done  their  parts  that  a reader,  not  in  the  secret, 
would  have  failed  to  perceive  that  it  was  not  all  the  work 
of  a single  writer.  It  was  published  in  book  form  by 
Charles  Scribner  & Sons,  of  New  York. 

Another  of  the  delightful  poems,  unpolished  and  unpre- 
tentious, with  which  he  used  to  entertain  the  Papyrus 
Club,  was  read  at  its  regular  meeting,  on  October  4 of 
this  year.  It  is  entitled  u The  Fierce  Light,”  and  refers, 
of  course,  to  that  which  beats  upon  the  throne  of  Pa- 
pyrus. 

THE  FIERCE  LIGHT. 

A town  there  was,  and  lo  ! it  had  a Club— 

A special  set,  each  hubhier  than  the  Hub  ; 

Selection’s  own  survival  of  the  fit, 

As  rubies  gleam  ere  gathered  from  the  pit, 

These  rare  ones  shone  amid  the  outer  horde 

Till  picked  and  gathered  for  the  club’s  bright  board. 

Oh ! but  they  made  a nosegay  for  the  soul, 

Tied  with  a silken  by-law,  knit  by  Towle. 


242 


JOHN  BOYLE  o’kEILLY. 


’Twould  do  you  good  with  spiritual  nose 
To  sniff  the  odor  of  the  psychic  rose, 
Historic  musk,  and  philosophic  pea, 

Poetic  pansy,  legal  rosemary  ; 

To  smell  the  sweet  infusion,  pills  and  paint, 
And  law,  and  music,  shaded  with  a taint 
Of  science,  politics,  and  trade. 


And  so 

It  came  to  pass,  they  could  no  longer  go, 

Until  from  out  their  brilliant  rank  was  led 
A man  to  stand  as  capstone,  ruler,  head. 

They  cast  their  eyes  around  to  choose  them  one  , 

But  closed  them  quick,  as  they  had  seen  the  sun. 

The  faces  of  their  fellow-members  blazed 

Till  none  could  look,  but  all  stood  blind  and  dazed, 

With  thoughtful  brows  and  introverted  eyes  ; 

And  thus  it  was  that  each  one  in  surprise, 

Beheld  himself  the  center  of  his  sight, 

And  wrote  his  own  proud  name  from  left  to  right 
Across  his  ballot,  even  as  one  inspired. 

Then  came  the  count  of  votes  ; a clerk  was  hired 
To  sort  the  ballots,  while  the  members  sat 
In  silent  hope,  each  heart  going  pit  a-pat  ; 

Swift  worked  that  clerk  till  all  his  work  was  done, 
Then  called  the  vote  : each  member  there  had  one  ! 

They  thanked  each  other  for  the  compliment, 

While  round  the  room  their  gloomy  looks  were  sent. 
They  knew  that  now  a choice  of  one  must  come  ; 
They  asked  for  names  ; but  all  the  crowd  was  dumb. 
At  last  one  said  : ‘ ‘ Let' s take  no  other  test , 

But  vote  for  him  whom  each  one  loves  the  best ! ” 

A moment  later  were  the  ballots  cast  : 

Each  wrote  one  name  e’en  swifter  than  the  last  ; 

The  votes  were  counted,  sorted,  and  the  clerk 
Was  seen  to  smile  when  closing  up  his  work. 

“ One  name  alone,”  he  cried,  “ has  here  been  sent. 
And  N.  S.  Dodge  is  your  first  president  ! ” 

Lord  ! how  we  cheered  him,  and  how  he  cheered  too, 
The  kindly  soul — the  childlike  and  the  true  ; 


243 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 

The  loving  heart  that  fed  the  merry  eye, 

The  genial  wit  whose  well  ran  never  dry. 

Lord  ! how  he  ruled  us  with  an  iron  rod 
That  melted  into  laughter  with  his  nod ! 

Just  hear  him  scold  that  ribald  songster’s  note, 

With  fun  all  beaming  from  his  dear  “ club  coat,” 

Just  see  the  smiling  thunder  on  his  brow 
At  some  persistent  rebel.  Hear  him:  “ Now 
This  club  must  come  to  order.  Boys,  for  shame ! 

I say  there,  Pascoe ! I shall  call  your  name.  ” 

Oh,  dear  old  friend ! Death  could  not  take  away 
The  fragrant  memory  of  that  happy  day ! 

We  speak  not  sadly,  when  we  speak  of  you  : 

Nay,  rather  smile,  as  you  would  have  us  do. 

We  think  you  do  not  quite  forget  us  here  ; 

We  feel  to-night  your  kindred  spirit  near, 

We  pray  “ God  rest  you,  loving  soul ! ” and  pray 
Such  love  to  have  when  we  have  passed  away. 

Old  joys,  no  doubt,  are  magnified  through  tears 
But  God  be  with  those  unpretentious  years ! 

Fast  spins  the  top ! That  golden  time  outran 
Too  swift,  too  soon.  And  now  another  man 
To  head  the  board  must  from  the  board  be  drawn. 

Oh,  varied  choice ! Some  vote  for  brain,  some  brawn ; 
Some,  skill  to  rule ; some,  eloquence  to  speak  ; 

Some,  moral  excellence,  some,  zeal ; some,  cheek  : 
That  one  an  artist  wants — a poet,  this  ; 

And  each  proposal  met  with  cheer  and  hiss — 

Till  from  the  table  rose  a sightly  head, 

A Jove-like  dignity,  white  beard  outspread. 

He  spoke  for  hours — an  d while  he  spoke  they  wrote, 
Their  choice  unanimous — he  got  the  vote ! 

Dear  Underwood ! they  chose  him  for  his  beard  : 

He  ruled  for  years,  and  each  year  more  endeared. 

Then  came  another  gulf  without  a bridge  : 

And  who  shall  stretch  from  annual  ridge  to  ridge  ? 

A sound  was  heard — the  Club  with  searching  stare 
Beheld  a figure  standing  on  a chair  : 

’Twas  Rogers — Henry  M. ; well  posed  he  stood, 

Head  bent,  lips  pursed, — a studious  attitude. 


244 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


No  word  was  said ; but  each  man  wrote  his  name, 
And  hailed  him  President  with  loud  acclaim. 

He  stepped  him  down:  “You  know  me  like  a book,” 
He  said,  “ I am  the  friend  of  Joseph  Cook ! ” 

While  Rogers  reigned  the  club  climbed  high  in  air; 
Then  paused  to  help  O’Reilly  fill  the  chair. 

Selected  he  for  neither  gift  nor  grace, 

But  just  a make-shift  for  the  vacant  place. 

Twelve  months  the  club  considered  then  its  choice, 
And,  like  a trained  Calliope,  one  voice 
Announced  that  Alexander  Young  was  Mayor  ; 
They  chose  him  for  his  grave,  benignant  air  : 

“We  want  historians ! ” they  proudly  said : 

“ The  Netherlands,”  by  Young,  they  had  not  read, 
Nor  had  he  writ  ; but  their  prophetic  rage, 

Could  see  the  writing  in  him,  every  page  ! 

Then  grew  they  weary  of  the  serious  minds, 

As  children  long  for  candy’s  varied  kinds. 

They  cried:  We  want  a man  to  please  the  eye; 

A sensuous,  soft,  mellifluent  harmony  ! ” 

And  all  eyes  centered  with  direct  accord 
On  Towle,  the  gentle  wrangler  of  the  board. 

He  swayed  the  gavel  with  a graceful  pose 
And  wore  a wreath  of  sweet  poetic  prose. 

Wide  swings  the  pendulum  in  one  brief  year  : 

The  fickle-hearted  Club  cries  : ‘ ‘ Bring  us  here 
A man  who  knows  not  poetry  nor  prose  ; 

Nor  art  nor  grace,  yet  all  these  graceful  knows  ; 
Bring  us  a brusque,  rude  gentleman  of  parts  ! ” 

They  brought  in  Hovey,  who  won  all  their  hearts. 

Next  year,  the  Club  said  : “Now,  we  cannot  choose; 
Goodness,  we’ve  had,  and  beauty,  and  the  muse  ; 
Religion’s  friend  and  Holland’s  guardian,  too  : 

Go — nominate — we  know  not  what  to  do.” 

And  forth  they  brought  a man,  and  cried  : “Behold! 
A balanced  virtue,  neither  young  nor  old ; 

A pure  negation,  scientific,  cold — 

Yet  not  too  cold — caloric,  just  enough — 

Simple  and  pure  in  soul,  yet  up  to  snuff. 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


245 


In  mind  and  body, — doctor,  artist,  wit, 

Author  and  politician, — he,  and  she,  and  it!  ” 
“Enough  ! ” they  shouted  : “ Harris,  take  the  bun ! ” 
And  all  were  sorry  when  his  year  was  done. 

Then  with  the  confidence  of  years  and  looks, 

The  Club  cried  gayly : “ We’ve  had  lots  of  books, 

And  beards,  and  piety,  and  science.  Now — 

We  want  a ruler  with  ambrosial  brow — 

A jovial  tra-la-la ! A debonnaire — 

A handsome  blue-eyed  boy  with  yellow  hair  ! ” 

And  forth  stepped  Babbitt,  with  a little  laugh, 

And  blushed  to  feel  the  gavel’s  rounded  staff. 

He  scored  a high  success — a fairy’s  wand, 

The  bright  good  nature  of  our  handsome  blonde. 

And  then  the  Club  cried  : ‘ ‘ Go  ; we  make  no  test. 
They  all  are  fit  to  rule.  Give  us  a rest ! ” 

So  went  they  out,  committee-like,  to  find 
A likely  candidate  with  restful  mind. 

They  found  him,  weeping,  hand  on  graceful  hip, 
Because  a fly  had  bit  a lily’s  lip. 

They  cheered  him  up,  and  bade  him  lift  his  eye  : 

“ Nay,  nay,”  he  said,  “I  look  not  at  the  sky 
On  un aesthetic  week-days ! Go  your  way ; 

I seek  a plaintive  soul ! Alack  and  well-a-day  ! ” 

They  heard  no  more,  but  seized  him  as  a prize, 

And  bore  him  club  wards,  heeding  not  his  cries. 
Behold  him  now  still  looking  in  his  glass, 
Narcissus-like,  not  Bacchus  ; and,  “Alas!” 

He  sighs  betimes,  1 1 1 would  my  lady  were 
Sitting  with  me  upon  this  weary  chair ! ” 

And  so  we  fill  the  album  and  the  mind 
With  jokes  all  simple,  faces  true  and  kind. 

And  so  the  years  go  on  and  we  grow  old ; 

These  are  our  pleasant  tales  to  be  retold. 

These  in  our  little  life  will  have  large  place, 

And  fool  is  he  who  wipes  out  jest  or  face. 

Men  love  too  seldom  in  their  three-score  years, 

And  each  must  bear  his  burden,  dry  his  tears; 

But  when  the  harvest  smiles,  let  us  be  wise 
And  garner  friends  and  flowery  memories. 


246 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


In  the  antnmn  of  this  year  the  exiled  poet  enjoyed  a 
welcome  visit  from  Father  Anderson,  of  Drogheda,  a typi- 
cal Irish  patriot  priest.  On  the  latter’s  return  to  Ireland, 
O’Reilly  wrote  him  the  following  tender  and  touching 
letter : 

November  7,  1884. 

Dear  Father  Anderson: 

God  speed  you  on  your  home  voyage.  I am  glad  I have  met  you, 
and  I hope  to  meet  you  again.  I may  never  go  to  Drogheda,  but  I send 
my  love  to  the  very  fields  and  trees  along  the  Boyne  from  Drogheda 
to  Slane.  Some  time,  for  my  sake,  go  out  to  Dowth,  alone , and  go  up 
on  the  moat,  and  look  across  the  Boyne,  over  to  Rossnaree  to  the  Hill 
of  Tara;  and  turn  eyes  all  round  from  Tara  to  New  Grange,  and 
Knowth,  and  Slane,  and  Mellifont,  and  Oldbridge,  and  you  will  see 
there  the  pictures  that  I carry  forever  in  my  brain  and  heart— vivid  as 
the  last  day  I looked  on  them.  If  you  go  into  the  old  grave-yard  at 
Dowth,  you  will  find  my  initials  cut  on  a stone  on  the  wall  of  the  old 
church.  Let  me  draw  you  a diagram.  (Here  follows  a diagram  of 
church,  with  place  marked.)  This  is  from  the  side  of  the  church 
nearest  the  Boyne.  I remember  cutting  “ J.  B.  O’R .”  on  a stone,  with 
a nail,  thirty  years  ago.  I should  like  to  be  buried  just  under  that  spot ; 
and,  please  God,  perhaps  I may  be.  God  bless  you.  Good-by! 
Fidelity  to  the  old  cause  has  its  pains ; but  it  has  its  rewards,  too — the 
love  and  trust  of  Irishmen  everywhere.  You  have  learned  this,  and 
you  have  it.  I will  send  you  photographs  of  all  my  girls  when  you 
get  home.  Always  tell  me  what  you  want  done  in  America  and 
it  shall  be  done  if  it  be  in  my  power. 

I am  faithfully  yours, 

John  Boyle  O’Reilly. 


Rev.  J.  A.  Anderson,  O.S.A. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 


O’Reilly’s  Case  in  the  House  of  Commons— Refused  Permission  to  Visit 
Canada— Slander  about  ‘ ‘ Breaking*  Parole  ” Refuted— A Charac- 
teristic Letter  in  1869— His  Editorial  “Is  it  Too  Late  ? ’’—Bayard, 
Lowell,  and  Phelps — Another  Speech  in  Faneuil  Hall — Hanging  of 
Riel — “ Jn  Bohemia  ” — Farewell  Poem  to  Underwood — “ Hanged, 
Drawn,  and  Quartered.” 

THE  case  of  the  “ self -amnestied  ” convict  became  the 
subject  of  diplomatic  correspondence  and  parliamen- 
tary discussion  in  the  winter  of  1884-85.  The  circum- 
stances were  as  follows  : In  December,  1884,  O’  Reilly  was 

invited  to  deliver  an  oration  in  Ottawa,  Canada,  on  the 
following  St.  Patrick’s  Day,  being  assured  of  protection 
from  arrest  in  that  part  of  her  Majesty’s  Dominions.  The 
assurance,  though  verbal,  was  doubtless  sincere  and  valid, 
so  far  as  the  Dominion  authorities  were  concerned,  but 
how  far  it  would  go  in  protecting  him  from  the  Imperial 
Government,  should  anybody  choose  to  denounce  him  as 
an  escaped  convict,  was  very  uncertain.  He,  consequently, 
declined  the  invitation,  but  sent  the  letter  to  Secretary  of 
State  Frelinghuysen,  asking  if  his  citizenship  would  pro- 
tect him  from  arrest,  in  case  he  went  to  Canada.  Mr. 
Frelinghuysen  offered  to  send  the  question  to  the  Eng- 
lish Government  through  Minister  Lowell.  O’  Reilly  then 
Avrote  to  Mr.  Sexton,  M.P.,  acquainting  him  with  his  ac- 
tion, and  asking  his  advice  and  that  of  the  other  Irish 
Nationalist  members.  They  advised  him  to  write  his 
request  directly  to  the  English  Home  Secretary,  alluding, 
of  course,  to  the  action  of  the  American  Secretary  of 
State.  This  he  did ; and  the  matter  rested  for  several 
weeks. 


847 


248 


JOHN  BOYLE  o’ REILLY. 


Meanwhile  the  St.  Patrick  Society  of  Montreal,  through 
its  President,  Mr.  D.  Barry,  had  sent  a deputation  to 
Ottawa,  to  interview  the  members  of  the  Government. 
Their  report  showed  that  Sir  Alexander  Campbell,  the 
Minister  of  Justice,  and  Sir  John  A.  Macdonald,  the 
Premier,  saw  no  reason  why  O’Reilly  should  not  visit 
Canada.  They  promised  that  the  Government  would  take 
no  action  against  him.  On  receipt  of  the  news,  O’  Reilly 
accepted  the  invitation  to  speak  in  Montreal  on  St. 
Patrick’s  Day. 

Subsequently,  however,  he  received  the  following  reply 
to  his  letter  to  the  English  Home  Secretary  : 

Secretary  of  State,  Home  Department, 

Whitehall,  January  29,  1885. 

Sir  : With  reference  to  your  letter  of  the  19tli  inst.,  asking  per- 
mission to  visit  Canada,  England  and  Ireland,  I am  directed  by  the 
Secretary  of  State  to  inform  you  that  he  has  already  received  an  appli- 
cation to  a like  effect  from  the  American  Minister,  to  which  he  has 
replied  that  having  regard  to  the  circumstances  of  your  case  he  cannot 
accede  to  the  request. 

I am,  sir,  your  obedient  servant, 

Godfrey  Lushington. 

Mr.  J.  B.  O'Reilly,  Pilot  Editorial  Rooms , Boston , Mass. 

The  following  is  the  official  dispatch  sent  by  Minister 
Lowell  to  Secretary  Frelinghuysen : 

Legation  of  the  United  States, 

London,  January  29,  1885. 

Sir  : Referring  to  your  instruction,  No.  1046,  of  December  16 
last,  I have  the  honor  to  acquaint  you  that  immediately  after  its  recep- 
tion I went  to  see  Lord  Granville,  and  inquired  formally,  as  directed 
by  you,  whether  this  Government  would  molest  Mr.  J.  B.  O’Reilly,  in 
the  event  of  his  entering  the  British  Dominions.  Lord  Granville 
promised  to  bring  the  matter  before  the  Home  Secretary,  and  to  send 
me  an  answer  as  soon  as  possible. 

I have  just  received  his  Lordship’s  reply  to  my  inquiry,  and  lose  no 
time  in  transmitting  to  you  a copy  of  same  herewith.  Yon  will  observe 
that  the  British  Government  do  not  feel  justified  in  allowing  Mr. 
O’Reilly  to  visit  the  British  Dominions. 

I have  the  honor  to  be,  etc., 


J.  R.  Lowell, 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


249 


Lord  Granville’s  letter  to  Minister  Lowell  was  as  fol- 
lows : 

Foreign  Office,  January  27,  1885. 

Sir  : I referred  to  Her  Majesty’s  Secretary  for  the  Home  Depart- 

ment the  request  which  you  made  to  me  personally  when  calling’  at 
this  office  on  the  9th  inst.,  in  favor  of  Boyle  O’Reilly,  one  of  the  per- 
sons convicted  for  complicity  in  the  Fenian  Rebellion  of  1866. 

I have  now  the  honor  to  acquaint  you  that  a reply  has  been  received 
from  Sir  W.  Y.  Harcourt,  in  which  he  states  that  application  had 
already  been  made  from  other  quarters  on  behalf  of  O’Reilly,  which 
had  been  refused,  and,  having  regard  to  the  circumstances  of  the  case, 
he  regrets  that  your  request  is  one  which  cannot  safely  be  granted. 

I have  the  honor  to  be,  etc., 

Granville. 

In  February,  1885,  Mr.  T.  Harrington,  M.P.,  intro- 
duced a petition  in  the  British  Parliament  asking  amnesty 
for  James  Stephens  and  John  Boyle  O’Reilly.  The  petition 
was  supported  by  Mr.  Sexton  in  an  able  speech.  He  called 
attention  to  the  fact  that  not  only  had  every  civilian,  sen- 
tenced at  the  same  time  as  O’Reilly,  been  released,  but 
every  military  offender  had  also  secured  his  liberty  ; that 
many  civilians  had  been  set  free  on  condition  they  should 
never  return  to  the  Queen’s  Dominions,  while  similar  con- 
ditions had  not  been  imposed  upon  the  military  offenders. 
Whatever  else  might  be  alleged,  he  said,  it  could  not  be 
maintained  that  there  was  any  moral  distinction  between 
the  case  of  John  Boyle  O’Reilly  and  those  members  of  the 
British  army  tried,  convicted,  and  sentenced  at  the  same 
time  : 

There  was,  however,  one  point  of  difference.  When  Mr.  Boyle 
O’Reilly  had  endured  some  part  of  his  sentence  of  penal  servitude,  he 
escaped  from  the  penal  settlement  in  Australia.  His  escape  was  accom- 
plished under  circumstances  of  daring  which  attracted  very  general 
sympathy.  The  right  honorable  gentleman  (Sir  W.  Harcourt)  smiled, 
but  he  would  try  to  escape  himself.  Mr.  O’Reilly  made  his  way  to  the 
coast  of  Australia  with  the  help  of  some  devoted  friends ; he  put  out  to 
sea  in  an  open  boat,  floated  alone  upon  the  surface  of  the  ocean  for  three 
days  and  three  nights,  then  had  the  good  fortune  to  be  taken  on  board 
an  American  ship,  and,  under  the  shelter  of  the  American  flag,  he 
made  good  his  escape  to  the  United  States.  With  regard  to  the  smile  of 


250 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


the  Home  Secretary,  he  (Mr.  Sexton)  asked  whether  it  was  not  a univer- 
sal principle  that  a man  suffering  a sentence  of  penal  servitude  would 
make  an  effort  to  escape  ? If  by  any  conceivable  turn  of  fortune  the 
Home  Secretary  came  to  suffer  penal  servitude  himself,  would  he  not 
make  an  attempt  to  escape  ? He  (the  Home  Secretary)  might  have 
shown  as  much  ingenuity  as  Mr.  Boyle  O’Reilly,  but  it  was  doubtful  if 
he  would  have  shown  as  much  courage. 

Sir  William  Harcourt. — I should  have  been  shot  by  the  sentries. 

Mr.  Sexton. — If  Mr.  Boyle  O’Reilly  was  shot  they  would  not  have 
been  considering  his  case.  The  point  was  that  his  guilt  was  not  in- 
creased by  his  effort  to  escape.  Mr.  Boyle  O’Reilly,  whom  he  had  the 
pleasure  to  meet  lately  at  Boston,  was  a gentleman  of  very  high  per- 
sonal qualities  and  of  the  rarest  intellectual  gifts,  and  during  the  years 
of  his  residence  in  America  he  had  made  such  good  use  of  his  powers  that 
he  now  filled  the  position  of  co-proprietor  with  the  Archbishop  of  Boston 
and  some  other  prelates,  of  one  of  the  most  important  journals  in  the 
United  States.  Mr.  O’Reilly  was  one  of  the  most  influential  men  in  the 
State  of  Massachusetts,  and  one  of  the  most  honored  citizens  in 
the  United  States,  and  might  long  ago  have  occupied  a seat  in  Con- 
gress if  he  could  have  spared  from  his  literary  labors,  and  the  duties  of 
journalism,  the  time  to  devote  himself  to  public  life  in  that  capacity. 
He  (Mr.  Sexton)  might  go  so  far  as  to  say  that  one  of  the  English 
gentlemen  who  met  him  lately  in  Boston,  Sir  Lyon  Playfair,  who  oc- 
cupied the  position  of  chairman  of  the  Ways  and  Means  Committee  of 
this  House,  was  so  impressed  with  the  personal  qualities  and  gifts  of 
Mr.  O’Reilly  that  he  was  one  of  the  gentlemen  who  pressed  upon  the 
British  Government  the  propriety  and  the  duty  of  extending  to  Mr. 
Boyle  O’Reilly  the  terms  freely  given  to  the  men  convicted  under  sim- 
ilar conditions.  In  December  last,  the  Irish  residents  of  the  city  of 
Ottawa,  intending  to  hold  a celebration  on  St.  Patrick’s  Day,  invited 
Mr.  Boyle  O’Reilly  to  join  them.  The  celebration  of  St.  Patrick’s  Day 
was  held  in  so  much  respect  that  it  was  the  custom  for  the  Parliament 
of  the  Dominion  to  adjourn  on  St.  Patrick’s  Day,  so  as  to  allow  the 
members  of  Parliament  of  Irish  birth  or  sympathy  to  attend  the  cele- 
bration. Mr.  O’Reilly  replied  to  the  invitation  that  he  did  not  feel  at 
liberty  to  accept  it,  in  consequence  of  the  uncertainty  which  he  felt  of 
what  the  action  of  the  British  Government  might  be  toward  him.  He 
put  himself  into  communication  with  the  American  Secretary  on  the 
matter,  and  such  was  the  sense  entertained  by  the  American  Secretary 
of  the  position  of  Mr.  Boyle  O’Reilly  that  he  put  himself  into  commu- 
nication with  the  American  Minister  in  London,  who  had  an  interview 
with  Lord  Granville,  and  on  the  part  of  his  government  put  the  matter 
before  the  Queen’s  Minister  in  due  form.  At  this  stage  the  matter 
dropped  for  some  time,  and  he  (Mr.  Sexton)  received  a letter  from  Mr. 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


251 


O’Reilly  informing  him  what  had  been  done  and  asking  his  advice. 
He  (Mr.  Sexton)  conceived  that  the  case  was  one  in  which  the  Govern- 
ment would  have  no  hesitation  in  granting  the  request.  The  interest 
of  the  Government  so  clearly  lay  in  wiping  out  any  violent  or  vindic- 
tive memories  of  the  time  of  Mr.  O’Reilly’s  trial,  that  he  had  no  doubt 
that  the  case  was  one  in  which  there  was  no  necessity  for  diplomatic 
circumlocution,  and  he  advised  Mr.  O’Reilly  to  address  himself  directly 
to  the  Home  Secretary  if  the  application  to  the  American  Minister  did 
not  immediately  result  in  a satisfactory  decision.  The  interview  of  the 
American  Minister  with  Lord  Granville  took  place  on  January  9, 
and  on  the  29th  Lord  Granville’s  decision  was  communicated 
to  those  concerned.  Lord  Granville  wrote:  “Your  request  is  one 

that  cannot  safely  be  granted.”  Mr.  O’Reilly  was  a public  politician  in 
America,  who  freely  and  frankly  expressed,  in  the  press  and  on  the 
platform,  his  opinions  on  the  Irish  political  question,  and  on  any  other 
question  that  came  within  the  range  of  his  duty,  and  his  public  position 
alone  would  surely  be  a sufficient  security  for  his  conduct.  The  first 
error  the  Government  committed  in  the  matter  was  that  through  vin- 
dictiveness against  a man  because  he  happened,  nearly  twenty  years 
ago,  to  escape  from  their  custody,  they  had  refused  a request  made  in 
true  diplomatic  form  by  the  Minister  of  a great  government  with  which 
they  claim  to  be  on  friendly  terms.  He  was  bound  to  describe  that  as 
a gross  diplomatic  error.  Mr.  Lowell,  the  American  Minister,  in  his 
letter  to  the  American  Secretary,  said  : “The  British  Government  do 
not  feel  justified  in  allowing  Mr.  O’Reilly  to  visit  the  British  Do- 
minions.” Whereas  the  Foreign  Secretary  appeared  to  believe  that  the 
safety  of  the  realm  was  concerned  with  the  question  of  whether  Mr. 
O’Reilly  went  to  Canada,  the  American  Minister  appeared  to  think  that 
Lord  Granville  thought  there  was  some  moral  objection.  What  was 
the  language  of  the  Home  Secretary  himself  ? He  wrote  on  the  29th  of 
January,  to  Mr.  Boyle  O’Reilly’s  application,  saying  that  he  had  already 
received  a like  application  from  the  American  Minister,  and  had  replied 
that  having  regard  to  the  circumstances  of  the  case  he  could  not  ac- 
cede to  his  request.  Here  it  was  not  a question  of  the  safety  of 
the  realm,  or  of  moral  justification,  but  merely  the  word  of 
the  right  honorable  gentleman.  Meanwhile,  what  was  happening  in 
America  in  the  interval  between  Mr.  O’Reilly’s  application  and  the 
reply  of  the  right  honorable  gentleman?  The  Irish  residents  of  Mon- 
treal gave  an  invitation  to  Mr.  O’Reilly  to  visit  them,  and  Mr.  O’Reilly 
replied  that  he  would  be  unable  to  go,  in  consequence  of  the  action  of 
the  British  Government.  Thereupon  the  Irish  residents  sent  a deputa- 
tion to  the  Government  of  Canada,  at  Ottawa,  and  upon  their  return 
made  a public  report  that  Sir  A.  Campbell,  the  Minister  of  Justice, 
and  Sir  John  Macdonald,  the  Premier,  saw  no  reason  why  Mr. 


252 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


O’Reilly  should  not  visit  Canada.  Did  the  right  honorable  gentleman 
know  more  about  Canada  than  its  Premier  and  its  Minister  of  Justice  ? 
One  Government  decided  in  one  way,  and  the  other  in  a different  way. 
Which  decision  was  right?  A constitutional  question  of  the  gravest  im- 
port was  involved.  If  a Canadian  Government  allowed  a man  to  visit  the 
Dominion,  did  the  Home  Secretary  mean  to  say  that  the  Home  Gov- 
ernment could  interfere  ? Then,  again,  the  prerogative  of  the  Crown 
in  England  was  the  prerogative  of  mercy.  The  Crown  sometimes  in- 
terfered for  the  purpose  of  releasing  a man,  but  it  was  new  to  him  (Mr. 
Sexton)  that  the  Crown  should  interfere  to  imprison  a man  whom 
the  right  honorable  gentleman  and  the  Government  had  determined  not 
to  molest.  The  right  honorable  gentleman  betrayed  an  indifferent 
knowledge  of  the  correspondence  of  his  own  department.  Here  was  a 
letter  signed  “Godfrey  Lushington,”  and  dated  the  29th  of  January, 
which  said  that  the  Home  Secretary  had  received  an  application,  but 
could  not  accede  to  the  request. 

Sir  Wm.  Harcourt. — I could  not  give  him  leave  to  go  to  Canada. 

Mr.  Sexton. — But  the  right  honorable  gentleman  has  assumed  to 
himself  the  right  tp  refuse  leave.  His  (Mr.  Sexton’s)  object  was  not  to 
appeal  on  behalf  of  Mr.  O’Reilly,  who  would  probably  never  repeat  his 
request — indeed , it  was  doubtful  if  he  would  now  accept  the  permission 
if  it  were  offered  to  him.  He  (Mr.  Sexton)  wished  to  protest  against  the 
course  which  the  Home  Secretary  had  pursued,  and  to  point  out  to  the 
Government  that  they  'were  exposing  themselves  to  ridicule  and  con- 
tempt throughout  America.  They  were  worse  than  the  Bourbons,  for 
they  learnt  nothing,  forgot  nothing,  and  forgave  nothing.  He  would 
ask  the  right  honorable  gentleman  for  his  decision  on  the  constitutional 
question. 

Sir  Wm.  Harcourt  said  that  he  had  never  heard  of  O’Reilly  before, 
and  his  case  certainly  could  not  be  dealt  with  in  any  exceptional  way. 
The  case  had  come  before  him  as  that  of  a man  who  had  committed  the 
offense  known  as  “ prison  breach,”  and  he  could  only  deal  with  it  on 
the  ordinary  line  of  prison  discipline.  He  (the  Home  Secretary)  had 
not  interfered  with  the  Government  of  Canada.  O’Reilly  might  be  a 
very  much  respected  and  distinguished  person,  but  that  would  not  pre- 
vent him  from  being,  in  regard  to  his  offense,  dealt  with  as  any  other 
prisoner. 

Mr.  T.  P.  O’Connor  said  that  in  politics  there  was  nothing  so  good 
in  the  long  run  as  a forgivingtemper,  but  the  Home  Secretary,  after  an 
interval  of  twenty  years  since  the  conviction  of  Mr.  O’Reilly,  could 
only  speak  of  that  gentleman’s  case  in  so  far  as  it  concerned  “ prison 
discipline.”  The  member  for  Stockport,  in  bringing  forward  his  plea 
for  the  establishment  of  a court  of  criminal  appeal,  had  not  supported 
his  arguments  by  reference  to  any  Irish  cases,  though  there  were  many 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


253 


that  would  have  served  his  purpose  much  better  than  those  English 
ones  of  which  he  had  availed  himself.  The  honorable  gentleman  had 
gone  back  to  some  very  ancient  cases,  but  he  need  not  have  looked 
further  than  a case  which  was  only  six  or  twelve  months  old,  namely, 
that  of  Bryan  Kilmartin.  He  might  have  pointed  out  as  an  argument 
for  his  court  of  appeal,  that  though  this  man  was  quite  innocent  of  the 
offense  with  which  he  was  charged,  he  was  allowed  by  the  Lord  Lieu- 
tenant to  remain  under  an  atrocious  and  undeserved  stigma.  Alluding 
to  the  treatment  of  Irish  political  prisoners,  the  honorable  member  said 
that  it  was  the  treatment  which  was  largely  responsible  for  the  main- 
tenance of  that  temper  between  the  two  races  which  was  such  a con- 
stant cause  of  alarm.  The  Home  Secretary  had  said  that  he  knew 
nothing  of  Mr.  O’Reilly.  Well,  the  right  honorable  gentleman  was  the 
only  educated  man  in  the  world  who  did  not  know  that  gentleman.  He 
heard  derisive  cheers,  but  right  honorable  gentlemen  opposite  should 
recollect  the  proviso  that  he  had  made.  He  had  said  the  right  honor- 
able gentleman  was  the  only  “ educated  ” man.  Mr.  O’Reilly  was  one  of 
the  best  known,  most  respected,  and  most  eminent  citizens  of  the  United 
States.  He  (Mr.  O’Connor)  complained  of  Mr.  O’Reilly  being  con- 
stantly referred  to  as  “ O’Reilly.”  It  was  the  tone  of  insolence,  of  arro- 
gance, of  mean  and  snobbish  contemptuousness  which  in  a great  meas- 
ure accounted  for  the  acrimony  which  unfortunately  characterized 
Irish  discussions  in  that  house.  The  Home  Secretary  would  live  in 
history,  but  what  would  be  thought  of  him,  the  honorable  member,  if  he 
were  constantly  to  describe  the  right  honorable  gentleman  as  “ Har- 
court,”  or  as  “ William  Harcourt,”  or  as  “ the  man  Historicus.”  Then, 
with  reference  to  the  right  honorable  gentleman’s  observations  on 
prison  breach,  he  complained  again  of  that  style  of  speech.  Would  the 
Ambassador  of  the  United  States  interest  himself  on  behalf  of  a com- 
mon burglar  ? This  was  a diplomatic  question  in  which  a great  govern- 
ment addressed  another  great  government,  and  the  attempt  of  the  right 
honorable  gentleman  to  reduce  it  to  the  contemptible  proportions  of  a 
common  law  matter  was  really  not  worthy  of  him.  In  conclusion  he 
said  it  would  do  no  harm  to  any  great  government  to  show  that  it 
could  forget  and  forgive  offenses.  As  a colleague  of  the  right  honor- 
able member  for  Midlothian  he  (Mr.  O’Connor)  would  ask  the  Home 
Secretary  to  remember  that  but  for  men  like  John  Boyle  O’Reilly 
Liberal  governments  would  not  have  had  the  glory  of  passing  measures 
for  the  benefit  of  Ireland.  If  the  application  should  be  renewed,  he 
hoped  that  the  right  honorable  gentleman  would  have  learned  to  have 
some  regard  for  the  feelings  of  Irishmen,  and  some  admiration  for 
those  who  had  done  and  suffered  in  their  country’s  cause.  These  sen- 
timents animated  all  governments  and  all  peoples,  except  in  the  single 
melancholy  instance  of  the  demeanor  of  England  toward  Ireland. 


254 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY, 


Mr.  Harrington  had  included  O’Reilly’s  name  with  that 
of  Stephens  in  the  petition  for  amnesty,  at  the  request  of 
the  Drogheda  National  League,  but  when  that  body, 
through  its  executive,  communicated  the  fact  of  its  petition 
to  O’Reilly  in  the  previous  December,  he  had  at  once  tele- 
graphed back,  “ Kindly  withdraw  my  name.” 

The  debate  in  the  House  of  Commons  attracted  much 
attention  on  both  sides  of  the  ocean.  Sir  William  Vernon 
Harcourt’s  reference  to  his  escape  as  a crime  of  prison 
breach,  seems  to  have  furnished  the  very  flimsy  foundation 
for  a slander  which,  in  keeping  with  its  character,  did  not 
find  voice  until  the  subject  of  it  was  dead  ; it  was  that  in 
escaping  from  the  penal  settlement  as  he  did,  O’Reilly 
broke  his  “ parole.”  Searching  inquiry  has  failed  to  dis- 
cover anybody  willing  to  stand  sponsor  to  the  lie  ; but  the 
nameless  and  fatherless  foundling  was  received  on  terms  of 
social  equality  by  some  in  whom  envy  or  prejudice  out- 
weighed respect  for  the  dead.  They  did  not  stop  to 
inquire  into  the  inherent  absurdity  of  the  statement  that  a 
criminal  convict,  for  that  was  O’Reilly’s  status  in  the  eyes 
of  the  British  law,  would  have  been  likely  to  be  put  upon 
his  word  of  honor  not  to  effect  his  escape.  Such  a pre- 
posterous charge  should  be  sufficiently  answered  by  the 
negative  evidence  that  there  is  no  corroborative  testi- 
mony supporting  it.  Happily,  however,  there  are  those 
living  who,  of  all  men,  are  best  qualified  to  speak  posi- 
tively on  the  question.  They  are  honorable  men  whose 
word  will  not  be  doubted  by  men  of  honor  ; men  of  the 
other  kind  it  is  not  necessary  to  address.  In  reply  to  a 
direct  question  on  the  subject,  Captain  Henry  C.  Hath- 
away, of  New  Bedford,  Mass.,  the  rescuer  of  O’Reilly, 
writes : 

New  Bedford,  November  11,  1890. 

Dear  Friend  Roche  : 

Yours  at  hand  and  noted,  and  in  answer  will  state  that  the  people 
who  are  talking  against  my  dear  old  departed  friend,  John  Boyle 
O’Reilly,  were  either  strangers  to  him,  or  else  through  jealousy  or 
cowardice  seek  for  means  to  destroy  the  reputation  of  a man  against 
whom,  while  living,  they  could  not  or  did  not  dare  to  utter  such  a 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


255 


charge.  O’Reilly  was  a true  and  a brave  man ; this  I have  always  said 
of  him  while  living,  and  now  that  he  is  dead  I say  the  same  without 
fear  ; for  no  one,  in  my  judgment,  can  point  his  finger  to  a mean  act 
that  he  ever  did.  Perhaps  no  one  in  America  knew  him  (outside  of 
his  own  immediate  family)  better  than  I.  We  roomed  seven  long 
months  together  on  board  the  good  old  bark  Gazelle ; we  had  every 
confidence  in  each  other,  and  would  stake  our  lives  for  each  other. 
The  story  of  his  escape,  he  often  told  me,  was  that  he  used  to  deal  out 
provisions  to  the  chain-gang  ; he  never  was  on  parole.  This  he  told 
me,  and  it  was  so,  for  John  Boyle  O’Reilly  never  lied  to  me. 

Yours  very  truly, 

Henry  C.  Hathaway. 

The  other  witness  writes  in  equal  indignation  against 
the  slanderers,  and  specifically  refutes  the  slander  itself. 
It  is  the  priest,  Rev.  Patrick  McCabe,  through  whose  good 
services  O’  Reilly  made  his  escape.  Father  McCabe  is  now 
a resident  of  the  United  States  ; his  letter  is  as  follows  : 

St.  Mary,  Wasseca  County,  Minn., 

November  19,  1890. 

My  Dear  Mr.  Roche  : 

I have  your  letter  of  the  6th  inst.  Absence  from  home  prevented  an 
earlier  reply.  John  Boyle  O’Reilly  never  broke  his  parole,  never  hav- 
ing one  to  break.  Prom  the  day  that  he  landed  from  the  convict  ship 
Hougoumont,  in  Fremantle,  up  to  the  day  of  his  escape  from  Bunbury, 
he  had  been  under  strict  surveillance,  and  was  looked  upon  as  a very 
dangerous  man  and  treated  as  such.  No  man  living  knows  this  better 
than  I do.  Silence  the  vile  wretch  that  dares  to  slander  the  name  of 
our  dear  departed  friend,  and  you  will  have  my  blessing. 

Yours  sincerely, 

P.  McCabe. 

As  illustrating  the  character  of  the  young  fugitive  from 
British  justice,  I will  here  introduce  a letter  (received  since 
the  first  chapters  of  this  book  went  to  press),  written  by 
him  to  an  Irish  paper  at  a time  when  he  was  in  danger  of 
recapture  ; and  when  his  chief  fear  was  lest  the  generous 
American  who  had  befriended  him  might  never  be  repaid 
for  that  kindness  : 

Island  of  Ascension,  August  27,  1869. 

To  the  Editor  of  the  ‘ ‘ Irishman  ” : 

Dear  Sir  : I doubt  not  that  your  readers  will  be  glad  to  hear  thai 
one  of  their  countrymen  who  had  the  honor  to  suffer  for  Ireland,  had 


256 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


also  the  good  fortune  to  escape  from  his  Western  Australian  prison 
and  the  terrible  perspective  of  twenty  years’  imprisonment. 

On  the  18th  of  February  I escaped,  seized  a boat  and  went  to  sea, 
but  had  to  return  to  land  in  the  morning.  I then  lived  in  the  “ bush  ” 
for  some  time,  and  eventually  put  to  sea  again,  and  before  long  was 
picked  up  by  an  American  whaler.  The  captain  knew  who  and  what 
I was,  and  installed  me  as  a cabin  passenger,  and  as  he  was  on  a six 
months’  cruise  for  whales,  I remained  on  board  for  that  time,  and 
every  day  had  a fresh  instance  of  his  kindness,  and  that  of  the  officers, 
and  all  on  board.  I had  some  very  close  escapes  from  being  retaken 
when  on  board,  but  the  officers  determined  I should  not.  In  one  Eng- 
lish island  at  which  we  touched  the  governor  came  on  board  and  de- 
manded me  to  be  given  up,  as  he  had  instructions  that  I was  on  board. 
The  chief  mate  answered  him  by  pointing  to  the  “ Stars  and  Stripes,” 
which  floated  at  the  “half-mast”  (in  sign  of  mourning),  and  said,  “ I 
know  nothing  of  any  convict  named  O’Reilly  who  escaped  from  New 
Holland  ; but  I did  know  Mr.  O’Reilly  who  was  a political  prisoner 
there,  and  he  was  on  board  this  ship,  but  you  cannot  see  him — he  is 
dead.”  And  he  was  forced  to  be  content  with  that.  Since  then  I have 
received  help  in  money,  when  it  was  found  that  I could  not  escape 
without  it,  and  now,  sir,  I presume  to  ask  that  should  anything  hap- 
pen to  me,  that  gentleman  who  assisted  me  shall  not  lose  his  money. 
(I  give  his  name,  but  not  for  publication.)  I know  my  countrymen 
will  not  misconstrue  my  motive  in  writing  this.  T send  this  to  Eng- 
land by  a safe  means,  where  it  will  be  posted  for  you.  The  captain’s 
name  is  Captain  David  R.  Gifford,  Bonny  Street,  New  Bedford,  Mass. 
I am  not  in  his  ship  now. 

Thanks  for  publishing  my  “Old  School  Clock.” * I saw  it  a day  or 
two  since.  I am  making  my  way  to  America.  I am  hurried  in  writ- 
ing. Good-by  ! God  speed  you  all  at  home  in  the  good  cause. 

Ever  truly  yours, 

John  Boyle  O’Reilly. 

I am  going  where  I am  unknown  and  friendless.  Please  let  me 
have  an  introduction  through  your  paper  to  my  countrymen  in 
America. 

O’R. 

To  return  to  chronological  sequence,  the  year  1885 
opened  with  a renewal  of  so-called  dynamite  outrages  in 
London.  Westminster  Hall,  the  Houses  of  Parliament, 


* Mr.  Vere  Foster’s  memory  was  evidently  at  fault  when  he  reported  the 
poet  as  having  said  that  he  had  not  known  of  the  publication  until  informed  by 
Mr.  Foster. 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


257 


and  the  Tower  of  London  were  the  three  points  of  attack. 
Buildings  were  shattered,  but  not  a human  life  was  lost ; 
the  dynamiters  had  selected  a day  and  hour,  two  o’clock 
Saturday  afternoon,  when  few  people  would  be  likely  to  be 
visiting  those  places.  O’ Reilly  thus  commented  on  the 
outrages  : 

That  the  explosions  were  intended  as  a warning  voice  is  obvious 
from  the  selection  of  places — the  Tower  of  London,  the  symbol  of  Eng- 
lish strength,  antiquity,  and  pride  ; the  House  of  Commons  and  West- 
minster Hall,  the  sacred  and  famous  rooms  of  the  national  councils. 
It  would  be  easy  to  destroy  private  property  or  national  property  of 
lesser  importance  ; the  dockyards  are  accessible  ; the  governmental 
offices  are  not  difficult  of  entrance  ; the  palaces  of  royalty  cannot  be 
guarded  at  every  door.  But  all  these  were  passed  by  the  dynamiters  as 
of  small  significance,  and  the  very  heart  and  lungs  of  Britain,  watched 
and  guarded  and  fenced  round  with  steel  and  suspicion,  were  selected 
as  the  point  of  attack. 

The  world  cries  out  indignantly  against  the  destroyers,  the  passion- 
ate rebels  against  injustice  who  would  reduce  all  order  to  chaos  in  their 
furious  impatience.  But  the  world  should  at  the  same  time  appeal  to 
the  oppressor  to  lighten  his  hand,  to  remember  that  the  harvest  of 
wrong  is  desolation. 

If  England’s  pride  is  too  great  to  yield  under  compulsion,  what  shall 
be  said  of  Ireland’s  pride  ? Are  the  scourgings,  exile,  starvation,  mis- 
report  of  nearly  a thousand  years  to  be  obliterated  at  the  order  of  an  act 
of  Parliament  ? The  nations  that  prize  civilization  and  appreciate  the 
force  and  limit  of  human  statutes  should  urge  justice  and  amity  on 
England  as  well  as  Ireland.  The  evil  cannot  be  stamped  out  ; it  must 
be  soothed  out  by  Christian  gentleness  and  generosity.  The  social 
dangers  of  our  time  can  only  be  averted  by  a higher  order  of  law.  The 
relations  of  men  and  nations  must  be  made  equitable  or  they  will  be 
shattered  by  the  wrath  of  the  injured,  who  can  so  readily  appeal  to  de- 
structive agencies  hitherto  unknown. 

Since  the  Phoenix  Park  assassinations  England’s  course  in  Ireland 
has  been,  as  before,  persistently  and  stolidly  tyrannous.  The  most 
virtuous  and  peaceful  country  in  Europe,  by  England’s  own  showing, 
is  ruled  by  armed  force.  Its  chief  governing  officers  are  abominable 
criminals,  exposed  by  Irish  indignation  and  shielded  by  English  arro- 
gance. The  Irish  population  is  disarmed  and  gagged  ; popular  meet- 
ings for  discussion  forbidden.  Paid  magistrates  and  English  police- 
chiefs  govern,  instead  of  the  natural  authorities,  among  the  people 
themselves.  The  cities  and  towns  are  wasting  away.  The  farmers  on 
the  lands  of  English  absentee  landlords  are  bankrupt,  and  there  are  no 


258 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’ REILLY. 


industries  on  the  rushing  streams  to  employ  their  children.  The  fertile 
country,  unsurpassed  in  the  world  for  natural  wealth,  supports  a mis- 
erable, unhappy,  rebellious  people,  whose  children  are  scattered  in  all 
lands. 

Ireland  is  a victim  in  the  hands  of  its  destroyer.  While  we  con- 
demn the  dynamiters  who  trample  under  foot  the  laws  of  God  and 
man,  we  ask  all  who  have  power  to  speak  to  urge  justice  on  the  strong 
as  well  as  forbearance  on  the  weak. 

A few  days  afterward,  on  January  31,  an  Englishwoman, 
giving  the  name  of  Yseult  Dudley,  called  on  the  famous 
“ dynamiter,”  O’ Donovan  Eossa,  at  his  office  in  New  York, 
and  professed  herself  anxious  to  help  along  his  operations 
against  England.  Meeting  him  by  appointment  the  follow- 
ing Monday,  she  walked  with  him  along  Chambers  Street, 
then  suddenly  drawing  a revolver,  stepped  behind  him,  and 
fired  five  shots,  one  of  which  took  effect  in  his  back. 
When  asked  why  she  had  committed  the  crime,  she  an- 
swered, “ Because  he  is  O’ Donovan  Eossa.”  The  exploit 
evoked  admiration  from  the  Englishmen  who  had  just  been 
raving  over  the  dynamite  outrages.  The  London  Standard 
advised  Mr.  Parnell  to  take  the  shooting  of  Eossa  well  to 
heart:  “Stranger  things  have  happened  than  that  the 
leader  should  share  the  fate  of  the  subordinate.”  The 
Times  compared  Mrs.  Dudley  to  Charlotte  Corday.  She 
was  in  danger  of  becoming  a national  heroine ; but  she  was 
sent  to  a lunatic  asylum,  and  soon  afterward  released. 

It  was  while  this  frenzy  of  race  hatred  was  at  its  height 
that  O’Eeilly,  always  ready  to  speak  the  wise  word  in  the 
right  time,  wrote  a strong  appeal — u Is  it  Too  Late  % ” 

The  startling  news  from  Egypt  has  diverted  attention,  for  the  hour, 
from  the  dreadful  relations  fast  growing  between  England  and  Ireland. 
The  madmen  were  at  the  helm  a week  ago,  and  the  nations  seemed  to 
be  rapidly  drifting  into  a war  of  races  more  appalling  than  the  world 
has  ever  seen,  for  the  limits  of  such  a conflict,  should  it  ever  come,  will 
extend  round  the  planet,  wherever  there  are  Irishmen  and  English  in- 
terests. 

The  madmen  are  at  the  helm  yet.  When  thirty  million  English 
people  wildly  cheer  a half  insane  and  wholly  disreputable  murderess, 
and  thirty  million  people  of  Irish  blood  half  sympathize  with  the  des- 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES.  259 

perate  lunatics  who  would  burn  down  London — it  is  time  for  both  sides 
to  pause. 

It  is  time  for  both  England  and  Ireland  to  answer  this  question  : Is 
it  too  late  to  be  friends  f 

In  the  present  hour  of  her  calamity  and  grief,  we  say  to  England  that 
she  can  steal  the  exultation  out  of  Irishmen’s  hearts  by  granting  the 
justice  that  they  now  ask,  but  will  soon  demand,  from  her.  A hundred 
years  ago,  when  she  had  to  grant  Ireland  a free  Parliament,  the 
position  of  England  was  not  so  perilous  as  it  is  now,  nor  had  the  Irish 
people  then  one  tenth  of  their  present  strength. 

One  magnanimous  statesman  in  England,  one  leader  with  the  cour- 
age and  wisdom  of  genius,  would  solidify  the  British  Empire  to-day 
with  a master  stroke  of  politics.  He  would  abolish  the  Union,  and 
leave  Ireland  as  she  stood  eighty-five  years  ago,  a happy,  free,  confed- 
erated part  of  the  Empire. 

Such  a policy  would  silence  the  dynamiters  and  radicals,  satisfy  and 
gratify  the  Irish  people  throughout  the  world,  strengthen  the  British 
Empire,  and  make  America  thoroughly  sympathetic.  There  are  twenty 
million  people  in  the  United  States  who  as  kindred  feel  the  rise  and  fall 
of  the  Irish  barometer ; and  the  policy  of  America  must  largely  respond 
to  their  influence  in  the  future. 

It  is  only  a question  of  a few  years  till  Ireland  obtains  all  that  she 
now  asks,  and  more,  without  England’s  consent.  Nothing  can  stop  the 
wave  of  Irish  nationality  that  is  now  moving.  At  the  first  rattle  of  the 
conflict  in  India  or  Europe,  Ireland’s  action  may  mean  the  ruin  or  sal- 
vation of  the  British  Empire. 

England  may  think  that  an  offer  of  friendship  from  her  would  now 
come  too  late.  She  knows  her  own  earning  in  Ireland,  and  may  well 
doubt  that  her  bloody  hand  would  be  taken  in  amity  by  the  people  she 
has  so  deeply  wronged.  But  let  her  offer.  She  is  dealing  with  a gen- 
erous and  proud  and  warm-hearted  race.  We  know  the  Irish  people; 
we  gauge  their  hatred  and  measure  their  hope;  and  we  profoundly 
believe  that  the  hour  is  not  yet  too  late  for  England  to  disarm  and  con- 
quer them  by  the  greatness  of  her  spirit,  as  she  has  never  been  able  to 
subdue  them  by  the  force  of  her  armies. 

Again,  a fortnight  later,  he  wrote,  “It  is  not  too  late,” 
expressing  his  belief  that  the  people  of  England  were  even 
more  ready  for  the  word  of  peace  than  those  of  Ireland, 
only  that  the  selfishness  of  their  rulers  stood  in  the  way. 
“ Send  an  olive  branch  to  Ireland,  Mr.  Gladstone,”  he  said, 
“ before  it  is  too  late.  Let  the  end  of  a great  life  become 
sublime  in  the  history  of  Great  Britain  and  Ireland  by  a 


260 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’  REILLY. 


deed  of  magnanimity  and  wisdom.  It  is  not  too  late  to  win 
Irish  loyalty  for  a union  which  leaves  her  as  free  as  Eng- 
land— the  only  union  that  can  satisfy  Ireland  and  make 
the  British  Empire  more  powerful  than  ever.” 

England  did  not  heed  the  warning  of  Irishmen  at  home 
and  in  America.  They  asked  for  the  bread  of  justice,  and 
she  sent  them  a stone  idol,  His  Royal  Highness  the  Prince 
of  Wales.  The  answer  came  in  the  action  of  the  Parnellite 
members  voting  with  the  Conservatives  in  the  House  of 
Commons  on  the  8th  of  June,  and  so  turning  the  scale 
against  the  Gladstonians. 

O’Reilly  advocated  Home  Rule  for  his  adopted  home  as 
vigorously  as  for  the  land  of  his  birth.  When  the  Legisla- 
ture of  Massachusetts  in  May,  1885,  passed  a bill  taking 
away  from  the  city  of  Boston  the  appointment  of  its  own 
police,  he  condemned  the  act  as  a departure  from  the  old 
Puritan  system  of  the  town  meeting,  the  greatest  safeguard 

of  public  representation “ Their  descendants  were 

of  the  same  mind  ; but  they  are  destructive,  while  the 
fathers  were  constructive ; the  men  of  old  made  the  town 

meeting,  the  men  of  to-day  would  destroy  it The 

Puritan  element  proves  itself  unworthy  of  life  by  attempt- 
ing to  cut  its  own  throat ! ” This  nucleus  of  all  liberty, 
the  town  meeting,  he  subsequently  glorified  in  his  great 
poem  at  the  celebration  of  the  Landing  of  the  Pilgrims. 

Mr.  Bayard,  who  had  been  appointed  Secretary  of  State 
by  President  Cleveland,  was  the  conspicuously  wTeak  ele- 
ment in  the  new  administration.  James  Russell  Lowell  had 
made  himself  obnoxious  to  every  patriotic  American  by 
utterly  ignoring  the  rights  of  citizens  unjustly  imprisoned 
by  the  British  Government  during  his  term  of  office  as  Min- 
ister to  England.  On  his  return  to  America  in  June,  he  was 
represented  as  having  said  to  a newspaper  interviewer : 
“There  is  nothing  but  English  blood  in  my  veins,  and  I 
have  often  remarked  that  I was  just  as  much  an  Englishman 
as  they  were  ; ” and  that  he  thoroughly  approved  of  the 
treatment  given  to  Ireland  by  the  Gladstone  administration. 
“We  had  earnestly  hoped,”  says  O’Reilly,  “to  see  Mr. 


261 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 

Lowell  come  back  to  America  to  be  honored  as  a great 
American  poet  and  a man  of  letters  ; and  we  now  as  earn- 
estly protest  against  his  new  character  of  a shallow  English 
politician.  We  want  his  other  self,  his  old  self,  his  higher 
self,  redeemed  from  this  weak  and  bastardizing  influence. 
Let  him  love  England  ; it  is  right  that  Americans  of  Eng- 
lish blood  should  love  their  kindred  so  far  as  their  kindred 
deserve.  But  spare  us  the  sight  of  a great  American  poet 
singing  his  love  for  the  hoary  evils  of  English  social  classi- 
fication, which  true  Englishmen  mean  to  cure  or  cut  out ; 
and  the  atrocities  of  English  misrule,  which  honest  English- 
men condemn  and  apologize  for 0 Mr.  Lowell,  you 

of  all  men  to  speak  lightly  of  an  oppressed  race  ! Do  you 
remember  these  lines  addressed  to  the  terrible  sisters,  ‘ Hun- 
ger and  Cold,’  and  when  you  wrote  them  % 

“ ‘ Let  sleek  statesmen  temporize  ; 

Palsied  are  their  shifts  and  lies 
When  they  meet  your  blood-shot  eyes 
Grim  and  bold ; 

Policy  you  set  at  naught, 

In  their  traps  you’ll  not  be  caught, 

You’re  too  honest  to  be  bought, 

Hunger  and  cold.  ’ ” 

The  successor  of  Mr.  Lowell  in  the  English  mission  was 
a Vermont  lawyer,  Mr.  E.  J.  Phelps,  who  excelled  the  for- 
mer in  love  for  English  institutions,  and  by  his  conduct 
abroad  succeeded  in  alienating  a large  section  of  the  Demo- 
cratic party  from  the  administration.  This  and  other  ap- 
pointments of  Mr.  Bayard,  coupled  with  his  singular  disre- 
gard of  American  interests  wherever  they  conflicted  with 
those  of  England,  aided  largely  in  the  defeat  of  President 
Cleveland  in  1888. 

The  death  of  General  Grant,  on  July  23,  called  out  an- 
other fine  poem  by  O’Reilly,  who  admired  the  simple 
straightforward  conduct  of  the  soldier,  although  he  had 
frankly  opposed  the  hero’s  policy  as  a President. 

A soldier  of  a very  different  type,  and  another  race,  died 
in  October  of  the  same  year.  His  title  was  Lord  Strath- 


262 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


nairn,  his  name  Hugh  Rose.  Rose  had  been  a general  in 
the  English  army  at  the  time  of  the  Indian  mutiny  ; he  was 
subsequently  commander-in-chief  of  the  forces  in  Ireland, 
at  the  time  when  O’  Reilly  was  a soldier  in  the  Tenth  Hus- 
sars. Of  him  O’  Reilly  wrote  : 

This  was  the  cold-blooded  wretch  who  adopted  or  originated  the 
dreadful  plan  of  blowing  the  Sepoy  prisoners  from  the  mouths  of 
cannon.  Thousands  of  brave  men  were  thus  destroyed.  The  deepest 
devilishness  of  the  thing  consisted  not  in  the  horror  of  the  death,  but 
in  the  fact  that  the  Hindoos  regarded  such  a death  as  barring  the  soul 
from  heaven  forever.  The  process  of  the  wholesale  murder  was  as 
follows,  as  described  by  eye-witnesses  : A man  was  chained  facing 

the  muzzle  of  the  cannon,  the  mouth  of  the  piece  against  the  center  of 
his  body  ; and  behind  him  were  bound  nine  men,  close  together,  all 
facing  toward  the  gun.  At  one  horrible  day’s  slaughter,  forty  pieces 
of  artillery  were  occupied  for  hours.  The  discharge  of  the  gun  blew 
the  ten  men  to  shreds  ; and  the  assembled  multitude  of  Indian 
witnesses  had  an  illustration  of  English  vengeance  that  was  calculated 
to  insure  submission. 

In  the  days  of  the  Fenian  excitement  in  Ireland,  Sir  Hugh  Rose 
was  transferred  from  India  to  that  country  ; and  in  1865,  when  the 
Fenian  insurrection  wTas  daily  looked  for,  this  military  ruffian  publicly 
paraded  his  brutal  request  to  be  “ allowed  to  deal  with  the  Irish  as  he 
had  dealt  with  the  Sepoys.”  Had  an  opportunity  offered,  the  meaning 
of  his  transfer  from  ravaged  India  would  have  been  made  as  clear  as 
blood  in  Ireland.  But  he  has  died  without  this  added  glory,  and  the 
days  are  fast  passing  when  in  the  name  of  civilization  such  a monster 
could  be  let  loose  on  a patriotic  people  defending  their  lives  and  homes. 

A great  meeting  was  held  in  Faneuil  Hall  on  October 
20,  in  aid  of  the  Irish  Nationalist  cause,  Governor  Robin- 
son, Mayor  O’Brien,  Hon.  F.  0.  Prince,  and  several  other 
distinguished  citizens  making  speeches.  John  Boyle 
O’Reilly  delivered  a spirited  impromptu  address  as  fol- 
lows : 

Sir,  centuries  before  Christopher  Columbus  was  born,  this  Irish 
cause  was  as  vivid  and  as  well  defined  as  it  is  to-day.  Speeches  and 
meetings  of  Irishmen  at  any  time,  for  nearly  a thousand  years,  were 
representations  of  this  meeting  and  our  speeches  to-night,  and  nothing 
could  have  kept  that  alive  in  our  hearts  but  the  repeated  scattering  of 
the  life  blood  of  our  men  over  the  soil  of  our  country.  We  have  made 
the  soil  of  Ii’eland  fat  with  sacrifice,  and,  thank  the  Lord,  we  are  seeing 


263 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 

the  harvest  here.  No  more  can  the  Cromwellian  system  be  applied  to 
Ireland.  Why  ? Because  of  the  expatriated  millions,  because  of  the 
great  moral  and  political  force  the  Irish  and  their  descendants  have  in 
many  great  countries,  because  we  are  England’s  enemies  until  she 
makes  us  her  friends — enemies  in  trade,  enemies  in  politics,  enemies  in 
social  life. 

If  I believed,  sir,  that  the  words  of  Mr.  Chamberlain  were  meant  by 
England,  if  I believed  it  to-day — and  I am  a citizen  of  America  and  my 
children  will  be  always  American  people — I say,  if  Mr.  Chamberlain’s 
words  were  true,  that  Ireland  would  never  get  what  she  wanted,  I 
would  not  only  subscribe  to  dynamite,  I would  be  a dynamiter. 

I want  to  say,  for  my  own  self-respect,  and  for  the  self-respect  of  my 
countrymen,  that  behind  all  their  constitutional  effort  is  the  purpose  to 
fight,  if  they  don’t  get  what  they  now  ask  for. 

I believe  now,  to  come  down  from  that  sort  of  talking  to  a quieter 
sort,  that  our  process  here  is  purely  American  ; that  our  purpose  here 
is  as  purely  and  practically  American  as  Irish  ; and  that  we  have  here  a 
terrible  reason  for  continuing  this  Irish  fight  in  this  State  and  over  all 
the  Union,  and  this  Boston  merchant’s  letter  * suggests  a word  to  me. 
Here  is  a man  employing  hundreds  of  men  and  women,  and  he  says 
that  nine  tenths  of  them  are  Irish  or  Irish- Americans,  and  he  says  that 
they  have  to  give,  sir,  a large  proportion  of  their  earnings  to  pay  rents 
in  Ireland,  and  save  relatives  there  from  eviction  and  starvation. 

We  complain  with  reason  that  the  Chinese  go  back  to  China  when 
they  save  money.  Ah,  there  is  a pathetic  and  a terrible  truth  in  the 
fact  that  the  same  charge  might  be  made  against  us — that  we  send 
millions  upon  millions  of  American  money,  earned  by  our  hard  work, 
to  Ireland.  We  send  it  year  after  year  to  Ireland,  to  pay  the  landlords, 
to  save  our  kindred  ; and  it  ought  to  be  kept  here  ; Ireland  ought  to  be 
able  to  support  herself. 

There  is  another  American  reason  why  we  should  continue  this 
Irish  agitation.  The  elements  of  our  population  are  mainly  in  the  East 
descended  from  England  and  Ireland,  and  they  inherit  a prejudice,  an 
unfriendliness — an  unnatural,  artificial,  ignorant  antipathy  on  both 
sides.  That  unnatural  condition  of  distrust  and  dislike  should  cease  in 
America,  and  we  should  amalgamate  into  one  race,  one  great  unified, 
self-loving  American  people  ; but  that  condition  will  never  come  until 
peace  is  made  between  the  sources  of  the  two  races.  Their  descendants 
in  this  country  will  always  be  facing  each  other  in  antagonism,  dis- 
content, and  distrust,  until  England  sits  down  and  shakes  hands  freely 
with  Ireland. 

Louis  Kiel,  tlie  French-Canadian  “ rebel”  of  the  Red 

*From  A.  Shuman,  Esq.,  inclosing  a contribution  of  $100. 


264 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


River  country,  was  hanged  at  Regina,  N.  W.  T.,  on  No- 
vember 16.  O’Reilly,  who  sympathized  with  the  half-breeds 
in  their  brave  resistance  to  injustice,  and  who  had  met  Riel 
after  his  first  outbreak,  some  fifteen  years  previously, 
could  not  believe  that  the  Government  of  England  would 
be  unwise  enough  to  make  a martyr  of  him.  But  when  the 
cowardly  deed  was  done  he  said  : 

England’s  enemies  in  Canada,  the  United  States,  and  Ireland  may 
well  smile  at  the  blood-stained  blunder.  Forever  the  red  line  is  drawn 
between  French  and  English  in  Canada.  Riel  will  be  a Canadian 
Emmet.  The  Canadians  needed  a hero,  a cause,  and  a hatred.  They 
have  them  now,  and,  if  the  people  be  worthy,  they  possess  the  secret  and 
the  seed  of  a nation. 

There  was  much  virtue  in  that  “if.”  The  French 
Canadians  took  their  only  revenge  by  burning  their  ene- 
mies in  effigy,  the  Orangemen  with  equal  dignity  fighting 
to  prevent  the  harmless  cremation,  and  all  the  national 
anger  seemed  to  have  oozed  out  in  the  smoke  and  stench 
of  burning  rags. 

In  March  of  this  year  O’Reilly  wrote  the  poem,  which 
has  had  perhaps  more  admirers  than  any  single  lyric  from 
his  pen,  “ In  Bohemia.”  He  first  read  it  to  his  brothers  of 
the  Papyrus  Club,  who  only  anticipated  the  verdict  of  all 
readers  in  accepting  it  as  the  national  anthem  of  the  bound- 
less realm  of  Bohemia.  In  the  Outing  magazine  for  Decem- 
ber appeared  his  best  as  well  as  his  shortest  narrative  poem, 
“Ensign  Epps,  the  Color  Bearer.”  The  humble  hero  of 
the  4 4 Battle  of  Flanders  ’ ’ had  been  commemorated  in 
prose  by  some  musty  chronicler,  but  his  fame  will  last  as 
long  as  that  of  the  poet  who  has  embalmed  his  deed  in  such 
noble  verse  : 

Where  are  the  lessons  your  kinglings  teach  ? 

And  what  is  the  text  of  your  proud  commanders  ? 

Out  of  the  centuries  heroes  reach 

With  the  scroll  of  a deed,  with  the  word  of  a story 

Of  one  man’s  truth  and  of  all  men’s  glory, 

Like  Ensign  Epps  at  the  Battle  of  Flanders. 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


265 


These  two,  with  other  poems,  appeared  in  his  last  col- 
lection, to  which  he  gave  the  title  “ In  Bohemia.”  An- 
other Papyrus  president,  Col.  T.  A.  Bodge,  son  of  the  first 
of  that  royal  line,  visited  geographical  Bohemia  a few 
years  ago,  and  brought  home  as  a trophy  for  the  club  a 
beautiful  silver  salver,  on  which  is  engraved  in  Bohemian 
and  English  characters  the  text,  u I’d  rather  live  in  Bohe- 
mia than  in  any  other  land.” 

Another  ex-president,  the  distinguished  author,  Mr. 
Francis  H.  Underwood,  had  been  appointed  United  States 
Consul  to  Glasgow,  and  his  departure  was  celebrated  by 
a dinner  at  “Taft’s,”  in  Boston  Harbor,  on  August  5. 
O’Reilly  wrote  an  amusing  farewell  poem  for  the  occasion, 
of  which  a few  extracts  will  show  the  character  : 

* * * * * * 

When  men  possess  one  secret  or  one  creed, 

Or  love  one  land,  or  struggle  for  one  need, 

They  draw  together  brotherly  and  human — 

(Those  only  fly  apart  who  love  one  woman). 

So  we,  with  one  dear  picture  in  our  heart 
Draw  closer  still  with  years,  and  grieve  to  part. 
****** 

And  now,  old  Glasgow  totters  to  its  fall, 

And  Underwood  is  called  to  prop  the  wall. 

We  smile  to  him — and  we  congratulate 
The  Nation  that  has  stolen  a march  on  Fate. 

We  say  to  him  : O Brother,  go  ye  forth, 

And  bear  good  tidings  to  the  misty  North : 

Show  them  to  write  a book  or  taste  a dish, 

To  sell  a cargo  or  to  cook  a fish : 

Teach  them  that  scholars  can  be  guides  of  trade, 

When  men  of  letters  are  our  consuls  made ; 

That  those  who  write  what  all  acknowledge  true 
Can  act  as  well  when  duty  calls  to  do. 

And  when  they  cry  with  wonder:  “ What  a man  ! ” 

Answer:  “ Go  to  ! I am  no  other  than 
A simple  citizen  from  out  the  Hub, 

A member  of  the  quaint  Papyrus  Club ! ” 

****** 

Some  dreamer  called  the  earth  an  apple — well, 

The  Celt  dares  all  the  cycles  have  to  tell ; 


266 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 

To  call  the  globe  a fruit  is  rash  and  risky  ; 

But  if  it  be,  its  juice  is  Irish  whisky  ! 

Stick  well  to  this,  old  friend,  and  you  will  take 
With  graceful  ease  the  Consul’s  largest  cake. 

Good-by  ! God  speed  you  ! On  the  other  side 
We  know  that  you  will  take  no  bastard  pride 
In  aping  foreign  manners,  but  will  show 
That  Democrats  are  Gentlemen,  who  know 
Their  due  to  others  and  what  others  owe 
To  them  and  to  their  country — that  you  will, 

When  years  bring  out  our  Mugwumps,  turn  your  face 
Toward  home  and  friends  to  fill  your  old-time  place 
The  same  old-time  Papyrus- Yankee  still. 

O’Reilly’s  speech  at  the  dedication  of  the  monument  to 
J.  Edward  O’ Kelly,  on  November  23,  attracted  wide  atten- 
tion, and  provoked  a brief  but  spirited  controversy.  A 
rash  critic,  who  yet  was  not  rash  enough  to  write  over  his 
own  name,  wrote  to  the  Boston  Herald , informing  “ the 
editor  of  the  Pilot  that  long  before  his  day  the  sentence 
of  hanged,  drawn,  and  quartered  was  done  away  with  ; and, 
although  it  may  not  be  a matter  to  be  pleased  about,  the 
writer  can  to-day  say  where  are  to  be  found  the  4 gallows- 
irons  ’ in  which  hung  the  corpse  of  the  last  man  so  con- 
demned in  Great  Britain.  That  was  long  before  Mr.  John 
Boyle  O’ Reilly  became  a Fenian Such  an  unchris- 

tian style  of  sentence  as  that  of  the  culprit  being  hanged, 
drawn  and  quartered  had  ceased  to  exist  before  Mr. 
O’Reilly  was  born  ; and  I can  only  say  that  I believe  he 
indited  that  epitaph  for  the  same  purpose  he  addressed  the 
audience  at  the  meeting  of  the  National  Land  League 
recently,  that  is,  to  stir  up  dissent,  if  his  power  could  do  it, 
between  the  two  greatest  countries  upon  the  earth.” 

O’Reilly  replied  very  conclusively  to  this  critic,  who 
had  signed  himself  “ Mancenium  ” : 

To  the  Editor  of  the  Herald  : 

A writer  in  your  paper  of  to-day  questions  the  accuracy  of  my  defi- 
nition of  the  English  capital  sentence  for  high  treason.  The  writer  is 
evidently  ignorant  of  the  question,  and  is  only  filled  with  a desire  to 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES.  267 

defend  England  from  the  charge  of  brutality  which  such  an  execution 
illustrates. 

Allow  me  to  give  your  readers  some  facts  bearing  on  the  matter. 
Many  Boston  readers  were  shocked  by  the  meaning  of  the  sentence  as 
stated  by  me  in  a speech  at  Edward  Kelly’s  grave — a man  who,  in 
1867,  with  other  Irishmen,  was  convicted  of  “ high  treason,”  and  sen- 
tenced to  be  “ hanged,  drawn,  and  quartered,”  according  to  English  law. 

I did  not  state  the  sentence  fully,  I admit  : I shrank  from  speaking 
the  words  to  American  ears,  or  writing  them  for  American  eyes.  The 
whole  horrible  truth  is  dragged  out  now  by  the  challenge  of  a zealous 
champion. 

The  person  adjudged  guilty,  by  English  law,  of  high  treason  for- 
feited his  property  to  the  crown,  was  drawn  on  a hurdle  to  the  gallows, 
there  hanged,  then  cut  down,  disemboweled,  and  his  entrails  burned 
before  life  was  extinct  ; and  the  body  was  then  beheaded  and  quartered. 

This  sentence  has  never  been  changed  since  it  was  passed  and  per- 
petrated on  Robert  Emmet,  in  1803. 

In  the  thirtieth  year  of  George  III.,  when  the  American  “rebels” 
were  guilty  of  high  treason  by  wholesale,  it  was  enacted  that  the  exe- 
cution for  this  offense  might  be  carried  out  without  the  full  perpetra- 
tion of  these  enormities.  But  the  horrors  were  by  no  means  abrogated 
or  forbidden,  nor  were  they  always  discontinued  in  practice,  as  we 
shall  see. 

The  procedure  at  a rebel’s  execution  under  this  sentence  is  briefly 
but  clearly  recorded  in  an  English  official  paper,  the  Dublin  Courant, 
published  at  Dublin,  in  1745.  Three  Scottish  rebels  of  that  time  were 
executed  in  London.  This  official  organ  says  : 

“Yesterday,  between  eleven  and  twelve  o’clock,  the  three  rebels, 
Donald  McDonald,  James  Nicholson,  and  Walter  Ogilvie,  were  drawn 
in  one  sledge  from  the  new  jail  in  Southwark  to  Kennington  Common. 
Alexander  McGromber,  who  was  to  have  suffered  with  them,  received, 
the  night  before,  a reprieve  for  twenty-one  days.  When  they  came  to 
the  gallows  they  behaved  with  decency  and  composure  of  mind.  Before 
they  were  tied  up,  they  prayed  nearly  an  hour  without  any  clergymen 
attending  them  ; and  when  the  halters,  which  were  red  and  white, 
were  put  on  them  and  fixed  to  the  gallows,  they  prayed  a few  minutes 
before  they  were  turned  off.  Walter  Ogilvie  delivered  a paper  to  the 
officers  of  the  guard,  though  none  of  them  spoke  to  the  populace,  but 
referred  to  the  accounts  by  them  delivered.  After  hanging  fourteen 
minutes,  Donald  McDonald  was  cut  down,  and,  being  disemboweled, 
his  entrails  were  flung  into  the  fire,  and  the  others  were  served  in  a 
like  manner  ; after  which  their  heads  and  bodies  were  put  into  shells, 
and  carried  back  to  the  new  jail.” 

Twenty  years  later  than  the  execution  of  these  three  Scottish  patri- 


268 


OHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


crts,  two  Irish  gentlemen,  relatives,  one  of  them  a Catholic  priest,  Rev. 
Nicholas  Sheehy,  parish  priest  of  Newcastle,  Tipperary,  and  Edmund 
Sheehy,  were  sentenced  to  be  hanged,  drawn,  and  quartered.  On  the 
15th  of  March,  1766  (nine  years  before  the  Battle  of  Bunker  Hill), 
Father  Sheehy  underwent  this  barbarous  sentence  at  Clonmel.  The 
head  of  the  murdered  priest  was  stuck  on  a pike  and  placed  over  the 
porch  of  the  old  jail  at  Clonmel,  and  there  it  was  allowed  to  remain 
for  twenty  years  (till  1786) — ten  years  after  the  declaration  of  American 
independence ; till  at  length  the  dead  priest’s  sister  was  allowed  to  take 
it  away  and  bury  it  with  his  remains  at  Shandraghan. 

On  the  3d  of  May,  in  that  year  (1766),  Edmund  Sheehy,  James  Bux- 
ton, and  James  Farrell  underwent  the  same  sentence  at  the  town  of 
Clogheen.  Some  of  the  vile  details  were  omitted,  however.  In  the 
Gentleman’s  and  London  Magazine  of  May,  1766,  there  is  an  account  of 
their  execution,  evidently  written  by  an  eye-witness.  I take  this  extract : 

“Sheehy  met  his  fate  with  the  most  undaunted  courage,  and 
delivered  his  declaration  (of  innocence  of  crime)  with  as  much  com- 
posure of  mind  as  if  he  had  been  repeating  a prayer.  When  this  awful 
scene  was  finished,  they  were  turned  off  upon  a signal  given  by  Sheehy, 
who  seemed  in  a sort  of  exultation,  and  sprang  from  the  car.  He  was 
dead  immediately.  They  were  cut  down,  and  the  executioner  severed 
their  heads  from  their  bodies,  which  were  delivered  to  their  friends. 
Sheehy  left  a widow  and  five  children  ; Buxton,  three  children  ; Far- 
rell, one.” 

To  prove  that  the  barbarous  sentence  has  long  been  abandoned,  the 
writer  in  the  Herald  says  rashly,  that  “ there  have  been  men  put  to 
death,”  within  recent  years,  for  “ offenses  against  the  crown,”  but  they 
were  not  “hanged,  drawn,  and  quartered.”  He  says  he  can,  to-day, 
say  where  are  to  be  found  the  “gallows  irons”  in  which  hung  the 
corpse  of  the  last  man  so  condemned  in  Great  Britain. 

The  nameless  gentleman  is  thinking  of  men  who  were  “ hanged  in 
chains  ” — a totally  different  sentence  and  execution,  and  for  a wholly 
different  crime. 

There  were  no  “gallows  irons”  needed  when  a man  was  only  to  be 
hanged  a few  minutes  and  then  cut  down  and  carved.  Gallows  irons 
were  used  not  to  kill  but  to  suspend  the  corpse,  sometimes  for  weeks, 
on  the  gallows,  so  that  it  could  not  be  cut  down  by  friends  of  the 
criminal.  This  was  the  punishment  of  robbers  and  pirates ; but  no 
man  condemned  for  high  treason  was  ever  “hung  in  chains.”  Indeed, 
no  man  “in  his  day  or  mine”  has  been  put  to  death  for  high  treason 
in  Great  Britain  or  Ireland.  No  man  in  those  countries  received  the 
capital  sentence  for  high  treason  between  Robert  Emmet  in  1803  and 
Edward  Kelly,  Gen.  Thomas  Francis  Bourke,  now  of  New  York,  and 
other  Irishmen  of  the  revolutionary  movement  of  1867. 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


269 


In  the  year  1798  two  Irish  gentlemen,  brothers,  distinguished  mem- 
bers of  the  bar,  named  John  and  Henry  Sheares,  were  tried  for  high 
treason,  and  sentenced  to  be  “ hanged,  drawn,  and  quartered.”  In  the 
Cork  Evening  Post , July  23,  1798,  there  is  a graphic  account  of  their 
execution:  On  the  gallows,  standing  hand  in  hand,  both  declared  that 

they  had  only  tried  to  reform  the  oppressive  laws  which  bound  Ireland. 
The  report  says : 

“ After  hanging  about  twenty  minutes,  they  were  let  down  into  the 
street,  where  the  hangman  separated  their  heads  from  their  bodies, 
and,  taking  the  heads  severally  up,  proclaimed,  ‘ Behold  the  head  of  a 
traitor  ! ’ In  the  evening  the  trunks  and  heads  were  taken  away  in 
two  shells.”  The  complete  enormity  of  the  sentence,  if  not  actually 
omitted,  is  not  further  described  in  this  case. 

In  the  case  of  Robert  Emmet  the  details  are  left  out  of  the  official 
report,  with  the  significant  words,  ‘ ‘ after  hanging  until  he  was  dead, 
the  remaining  part  of  the  sentence  was  executed  upon  him.” 

Between  Robert  Emmet  and  Edward  Kelly  the  sentence  for  high 
treason  was  never  used,  and  never  altered. 

Let  us  see  how  Robert  Emmet  was  killed.  An  eye-witness,  Mr. 
John  Fisher,  of  Dublin,  a well-known  man,  wrote  the  following  words : 

“ I saw  Robert  Emmet  executed The  execution  took  place  at 

the  corner  of  the  lane  at  St.  Catherine’s  Church,  in  Thomas  Street,  and 
he  died  without  a struggle.  He  was  immediately  beheaded  upon  a table 
lying  on  the  temporary  scaffold.  The  table  was  then  brought  down  to 
market  house,  opposite  John  Street,  and  left  there  against  the  wall,  ex- 
posed to  public  view  for  about  two  days.  It  was  a deal  table,  like  a 
common  kitchen  table.”  A short  time  after  the  execution,  within  an 
hour  or  so,  Mrs.  McCready,  daughter  of  Mr.  James  Moore,  a well 
known  Dublin  citizen,  in  passing  through  that  part  of  Thomas  Street, 
observed  near  the  scaffold,  where  the  blood  of  Robert  Emmet  had 
fallen  on  the  pavement  from  between  the  planks  of  the  platform,  some 
dogs  collected  lapping  up  the  blood.  She  called  the  attention  of  the 
-soldiers,  who  were  left  to  guard  the  scaffold,  to  this  appalling  sight. 
The  soldiers,  who  belonged  to  a Scottish  highland  regiment,  manifested 
their  horror  at  it ; the  dogs  were  chased  away.  “ More  than  one  spec- 
tator,” says  Dr.  Madden,  repeating  the  words  of  eye-witnesses,  “ap- 
proached the  scaffold  when  the  back  of  the  sentinel  was  turned  to 
it,  dipped  his  handkerchief  in  the  blood,  and  thrust  it  into  his 
bosom.” 

The  official  English  report  of  the  execution  of  Robert  Emmet,  pub- 
lished in  the  Dublin  Freeman's  Journal  of  September  22,  1803,  says  : 

‘ * After  hanging  until  dead,  the  remaining  part  of  the  sentence  of  the 
law  was  executed  upon  him” 

If  the  question  of  these  atrocities  be  one  of  humanity,  and  not  of 


270 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


mere  technical  knowledge,  I may  here  quote  the  words  on  another,  but 
kindred  subject,  of  an  eminent  Protestant  historian  of  Ireland,  Robert 
R.  Madden,  F.R.C.S.  of  England,  M.R.I.A.,  etc.,  who  is  still  living, 
describing  the  tortures  inflicted  on  Annie  Devlin,  the  faithful  servant 
of  Robert  Emmet,  to  make  her  betray  the  patriot  leader.  Dr.  Madden 
says  : ‘ ‘ Annie  Devlin,  the  servant  of  Robert  Emmet,  was  half  hanged 
from  the  back  band  of  a car,  the  shafts  being  elevated  for  the  purpose 
of  making  a temporary  gallows — a common  contrivance  of  terrorists  of 
those  times.  The  account  of  her  sufferings  I had  from  her  own  lips, 
on  the  spot  where  those  atrocities  were  perpetrated.  When  she  was 
taken  down,  her  shoulders  and  the  upper  parts  of  her  arms  were 
pricked  with  bayonets,  the  cicatrized  marks  of  which  I have  seen 
and  felt.” 

I can  give,  if  necessary,  hundreds,  yea,  thousands,  of  instances  of 
legal  murder,  maiming,  mutilation,  and  torture,  perpetrated  by  English 
officials  and  their  subordinates  in  Ireland.  My  object  in  mentioning 
the  sentence  of  Edward  Kelly  was  historical  and  humanitarian.  I 
should  expect  the  sympathy  and  indorsement  of  every  honest  man, 
and  especially  of  every  independent  and  manly  Englishman.  In  his 
name,  and  the  name  of  his  race,  these  abominations  have  been  com- 
mitted by  a government  of  aristocrats  and  royal  rascals,  who  have  mis- 
used and  impoverished  the  people  of  their  own  country  as  well  as  of 
Ireland.  The  Englishman  who  thinks  it  his  duty  to  defend  or  deny 
these  things  must  choose  one  of  two  despicable  positions. 

Edward  Kelly,  Gen.  T.  F.  Bourke,  and  other  Irishmen,  in  1867,  were 
tried  for  high  treason,  and  received  exactly  the  same  legal  sentence  as 
that  passed  on  William  Orr,  the  brothers  Sheares,  Thomas  Russell, 
and  Robert  Emmet,  in  1798  and  1803 — “to  be  hanged,  drawn,  and 
quartered.” 

In  the  year  1798,  the  following  Irishmen,  all  of  the  class  of  gentle- 
men, were  “hanged,  drawn,  and  quartered”  for  what  England  called 
high  treason. 

I separate  them  according  to  their  religious  beliefs  : 


ESTABLISHED  CHURCH. 


Henry  Sheares, 
John  Sheares, 


Bartholomew  Tone, 
Matthew  Keough, 


B.  B.  Harvey. 


PRESBYTERIANS. 


William  Orr, 

Henry  Monroe, 

James  Dickey, 

Henry  J.  McCracken, 


Henry  Byers, 


Rev.  Mr.  Warwick, 
Rev.  Wm.  Porter, 
Rev.  Mr.  Stevelly. 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


271 


CATHOLICS. 

William  M.  Byrne,  John  McCann, 


J.  Esmond,  M.D., 
Walter  Devereux, 
Felix  Rourke, 

Col.  O’Doude, 

John  Clinch, 

Rev.  Moses  Kearns, 
Rev.  Mr.  Redmond, 
Rev.  Mr.  Prendergast, 

William  Byrne, 
Esmond  Ryan, 

S.  Barrett, 

John  Kelly, 
Harvey  Hay, 

Rev.  John  Murphy, 
Rev.  P.  Roche, 

Rev.  J.  Quigley. 

On  the  whole,  I am  obliged  to  the  writer  in  the  Herald  who  has 
drawn  out  these  facts,  every  one  of  which  deserves — not  the  destructive 
sentence  for  high  treason,  but  its  English  sister  monstrosity — “ to  be 
hanged  in  chains.” 

I am  respectfully  yours, 

John  Boyle  O’Reilly. 


Boston,  November  26,  1885. 


CHAPTER  XV. 


Article  in  North  American  Review , “ At  Last  Address  before  the 
Beacon  Club  of  Boston — Defense  of  the  Colored  Men — The  Five 
Dollar  Parliamentary  Fund — “The  American  Citizen  Soldier” — 
“ The  Cry  of  the  Dreamer” — Another  Characteristic  Letter. 

THE  general  election  in  Ireland,  toward  the  end  of  the 
year  1885,  resulted  in  the  return  of  eighty -six  Nation- 
alist, against  seventeen  Tory  members  of  Parliament  from 
that  country.  England,  Scotland,  and  Wales  had  as  yet 
hardly  begun  to  consider  Home  Rule  as  a practical  ques- 
tion, until  it  was  brought  home  to  them  by  this  remarkable 
expression  of  Ireland’s  will. 

To  a keen  observer  and  sanguine  patriot  like  O’Reilly, 
its  success  now  seemed  to  be  only  a question  of  time.  In 
the  North  American  Review  for  January,  1886,  he  wrote  a 
graphic  summary  of  Ireland’s  long  struggle  for  nationality, 
with  a prediction  of  its  approaching  success,  under  the 
heading  “ At  Last.”  Reviewing  briefly  the  conquest  and 
spoliation  of  the  country  by  Henry  the  Second  and  his  suc- 
cessors, he  showed  how  England,  in  putting  the  school- 
master and  the  priest  on -an  equal  felonious  footing,  had 
struck  at  the  brain  and  heart  of  the  conquered  people,  in 
order  the  better  to  despoil  their  pockets  : 

England  had  resolved  to  make  the  Irish  forget  that  they  were  Irish, 
trusting  that  when  this  had  been  achieved  she  could  teach  them  that 
they  were  in  truth  not  Irish,  but  West  Britons,  and  had  never  had  na- 
tional freedom,  or  traditions,  or  glory,  or  great  men,  or  wise  laws,  or 
famous  schools,  or  a high  civilization,  and  the  honor  of  other  nations, 
but  had  always  been  a poor,  broken,  restless,  miserable,  quarrelsome 
people,  dreaming  about  ancient  greatness  that  was  all  a lie,  and  about 
future  freedom  and  honor  that  were  all  a delusion ; and  that  God  and 
nature  had  made  them,  past  and  future,  subjects  to  the  wise,  good, 

272 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


273 


unselfish,  gentle  English  nation,  that  went  about  the  world  helping 
weak  countries  to  be  free  and  civilized  and  Christian ! 

Three  hundred  years  ago,  when  Henry  VIII.  became  a Protestant, 
he  resolved  that  the  Irish  should  be  Protestant,  too ; and  for  the  next 
hundred  years  the  reforming  process  never  rested — the  chief  means 
being  the  bullet,  the  rope,  and  the  slave-ship. 

A gentleman  from  Jamaica  told  me  last  year,  as  a curious  fact,  that 
the  negroes  in  that  country  used  a great  many  Gaelic  words.  No  won- 
der ; about  60,000  Irish  boys  and  girls  were  sold  to  the  tobacco  planters 
of  the  West  Indies  300  years  ago,  as  Sir  William  Petty  and  other  Eng- 
lish historians  of  the  time  relate. 

Two  hundred  years  ago — and  still  the  deathless  fight,  the  Irish  grow- 
ing weaker,  the  English  stronger.  It  had  now  become  ‘ ‘ the  religious 
duty”  of  the  Englishman  to  subdue  the  Irish  “for  their  own  sakes.” 
Cromwell  went  over  and  slaughtered  every  man  in  the  first  garrisoned 
town  he  captured,  Drogheda.  “ By  God’s  grace,”  he  wrote  to  the  Par- 
liament, “I  believe  that  not  one  escaped,”  and  he  added  that,  when  the 
officers  capitulated  and  surrendered : “ They  were  knocked  on  the  head, 
too.” 

Cromwell  “ made  peace  and  silence”  in  Ireland;  his  troopers  ruled 
the  whole  country  for  the  first  time.  Then  came  an  unexampled 
atrocity  in  the  name  of  ‘ ‘ civilization  ” ; four  fifths  of  the  entire  island, 
every  acre  held  by  the  native  Irish,  who  were  Catholics,  was  confis- 
cated and  handed  over  to  Cromwell’s  disbanded  army. 

This  was  the  beginning  of  the  Irish  Land  Question,  that  Michael 
Davitt  has  been  hammering  at  for  years,  and  which  he  is  going  to  see 
settled. 

A hundred  years  ago,  Ireland  was  in  the  most  deplorable  condition 
that  any  civilized  nation  ever  descended  to.  Six  centuries  of  a violent 
struggle  had  wasted  her  blood,  money,  and  resources ; her  people  were 
disfranchised — no  man  voted  in  Ireland  except  those  of  the  English 
colony*.  For  a hundred  preceding  years  the  teacher  and  priest  had  been 
hunted  felons.  There  were  only  four  million  Irish  altogether,  and  they 
were  nearly  all  in  Ireland,  friendless,  voiceless,  voteless,  landless, 
powerless,  disarmed,  disorganized,  ignorant,  forgotten  by  the  world, 
misreported  and  misrepresented  by  their  rich  and  powerful  enemy,  and 
held  up  in  English  books,  newspapers,  schools,  at  home  and  abroad,  as 
a race  of  wild,  weak,  witty,  brave,  quarrelsome,  purposeless  incapa- 
bles. 

But  in  his  blood,  and  mud,  and  rags,  and  wretchedness,  the  Irish- 
man was  still  unsubdued,  still  a free  man  in  soul  and  a foeman  in  act. 
The  Irishman  then  was,  as  he  still  is,  the  most  intense  Nationalist  in 
the  world. 

Grattan  abolished  the  Poyning’s  Law  ; and  the  Irish  Parliament, 


274 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


from  1785  to  1800,  made  the  laws  for  Ireland.  In  that  time  the 
country  advanced  like  a released  giant.  Lord  Clare  said  in  1798  : 
“No  country  in  the  world  has  advanced  like  Ireland,  in  trade,  manu- 
facture, and  agriculture,  since  1782.” 

Then  England  began  to  fear  the  Irish  revival,  and  the  demands  of 
the  English  mercantile,  manufacturing,  and  shipping  classes -were 
marvels  of  cowardly  and  jealous  feeling.  (See  Lecky,  “ Public  Life  in 
England  in  the  Eighteenth  Century.”)  They  demanded  that  Ireland  be 
destroyed  as  a competing  power.  “ Make  the  Irish  remember  that  they 
are  conquered,  ” were  the  words  of  one  petition  to  the  English  Parliament. 

The  rebellion  of  ’98  was  fomented  by  the  English  Government,  and 
a fearful  slaughter  of  fifty  thousand  Irishmen  ensued.  This  was  the 
pretext  wanted.  The  English  colony  in  Ireland  were  instructed  to 
raise  the  cry  of  “ Our  lives  and  religion  in  danger  ! ” A majority  of 
the  Anglicans  who  composed  the  ‘ ‘ Irish  Parliament  ” were  bought  off 
by  Castlereagh,  who  paid  them,  as  the  Irish  red  and  black  lists  show, 
nearly  £3,000,000  for  their  votes  ; and  so  the  union  with  England  was 
carried. 

Three  years  later  another  rebellion  broke  out,  organized  and  led  by 
a Protestant  gentleman,  Robert  Emmet,  who  was  ‘ ‘ hanged,  drawn, 
and  quartered,”  and  the  dogs  lapped  his  blood,  as  an  eye-witness  re- 
lates, from  the  gallows-foot  in  Thomas  Street. 

Then  the  pall  was  pulled  over  the  face  of  Ireland,  and  she  lay  down 
in  the  ashes  and  abasement  of  her  loneliness  and  misery.  She  had  no 
earthly  friends  ; she  was  weak  to  death  from  struggle,  outrage,  and 
despair.  Even  God  had  apparently  forgotten  her  in  the  night. 

But  a new  voice  called  to  her  in  the  darkness,  and  she  listened — 
Daniel  O’Connell,  a strong  man,  full  of  courage  and  purpose.  After 
thirty  years  of  agitation  he  won  with  his  minority.  He  had  trained 
them  superlatively.  He  won  the  franchise  for  the  Catholics. 

For  eighteen  years  more  he  worked  to  get  the  Act  of  Union 
repealed  ; but  England,  when  he  touched  that  point,  arrested  and 
imprisoned  him.  This  stopped  the  agitation.  The  people  had  no 
leader  and  no  outside  moral  support.  It  was  O’Connell  and  the  Irish 
people  ; not  the  Irish  people  and  O’Connell. 

The  Young  Ireland  party  in  1848,  impatient,  maddened,  broke  into 
premature  rebellion— were  crushed,  condemned,  banished. 

Then  the  famine,  and  the  swelling  of  the  Irish  emigration  stream 
into  a torrent  ! Thousands  died  on  the  soil,  and  literally  millions  fled 
to  other  countries — to  England,  Scotland,  America,  Canada,  Australia, 
South  Africa,  the  Argentine  Republic. 

Twenty  years  later,  1865-67,  the  first  warning  movement  of  the 
exiles — Fenianism  ; a marvelous  crystallization  of  sentiment,  heroism, 
and  sacrifice. 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


275 


Again,  the  abrogation  of  law  in  Ireland — the  rule  of  the  dragoon, 
the  glutted  prison,  the  crowded  emigrant  fleets,  the  chained  men  on 
convict  ships ; and  again,  “ silence  and  peace  in  Ireland.” 

England  had  now  realized  the  important  fact  that  the  commercial 
development  of  the  Western  World  had  placed  Ireland  in  an  objective 
position  of  the  highest  value.  She  lay  in  the  high  stream  of  progress. 
Her  western  and  southern  shores  were  indented  with  deep  and  safe 
bays  and  harbors.  A ship-canal  from  Galway  to  Dublin  would  capture 
every  ship  on  the  Atlantic  bound  for  Liverpool,  saving  two  days  in 
sailing  time  ; and  the  Irish  were  bent  on  cutting  such  a canal.  The 
great  fall  of  the  Irish  rivers  was  an  inestimable  treasure,  greater 
even  than  the  mineral  wealth  of  the  island  and  the  fisheries  on  the 
coast. 

Every  ship  going  through  an  Irish  canal  was  in  danger  of  forget- 
ting the  southern  English  ports,  Bristol  and  Southampton.  Every 
mill  built  on  .an  Irish  stream  would  deduct  from  the  profits  of  Lanca- 
shire. Every  ton  of  coal  or  other  mineral  dug  in  Ireland  lowered  the 
prices  in  Nottingham,  Sheffield,  and  the  Black  Country.  If  the  Irish 
farmers’  children  could  get  work  in  mills  and  mines  and  shops,  their 
earnings  would  make  their  parents  independent  of  the  landlords,  and 
rents  would  have  to  be  lowered. 

It  was  clear  that  Ireland’s  advance  must  be  stopped,  or  she  would 
become  a dangerous  competitor  and  a democratic  example  for  Great 
Britain. 

After  the  abortive  Fenian  rising,  fruit  of  oppression’s 
seed,  followed  the  advent  of  Parnell,  “fresh  from  Ox- 
ford, with  his  cold  English  training,  his  Yankee  blood, 
and  Irish  patriotic  traditionary  feeling.”  His  wonderful 
success  had  made  it  clear  that  England  must  either  grant 
Home  Rule  or  send  a new  Cromwell  to  do  the  work  of 
extermination  more  thoroughly.  But  before  the  latter 
could  be  done  England  would  have  to  reckon  with  the 
Irish  outside  of  Ireland,  and  : 

Ireland  is  saved  by  the  twenty  million  Irish-blooded  Americans  ; by 
the  five  million  Irish  and  their  descendants  in  England,  Scotland,  and 
Wales;  by  the  vast  numbers  of  Irish  sympathizers  in  Australia,  New 
Zealand,  Canada,  and  other  countries.  It  would  be  highly  dangerous 
to  slaughter  the  kindred  of  such  a people. 

It  is  not  likely  that  Ireland  will  gain  much  from  the  coming  Parlia- 
ment. The  Parliament  cannot  last  long  ; it  is  too  evenly  balanced. 
Besides,  England  has  not  yet  realized  that  Home  Rule  for  Ireland  is 


276  JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 

inevitable.  It  will  take  three  years  to  vaccinate  her  with  the  idea  and 
allow  it  to  “ take  ! ” 

In  conclusion,  lie  said  : 

There  are  three  stages  in  specific  reform— agitation,  controversy, 
and  legislation.  The  Irish  have  passed  through  the  first,  and  are  enter- 
ing the  second. 

Parnell,  with  fifteen  or  twenty  votes,  was  not  a power  ; he  was  only 
a voice,  an  emphasis,  an  appeal.  He  was  an  agitational  influence. 
With  eighty-six  votes  he  is  a controversial  force.  “ He  has  compelled 
John  Bull  to  listen,”  as  Wendell  Phillips  said  of  him. 

In  1889,  I predict,  the  legislative  stage  of  the  Irish  question  will 
have  arrived;  and  the  union  with  England,  which  shall  then  have 
cursed  Ireland  for  nine  tenths  of  a century,  will  be  repealed. 

Ere  this  article  had  appeared,  the  London  Times,  in  its 
issue  of  Christmas  Eve,  advised  the  alternative  of  a Crom- 
wellian policy,  the  expulsion  of  the  Irish  members  from 
Parliament,  and  the  proclamation  of  martial  law  in  Ireland. 
O’Reilly  commented  : 

There  are  classes  in  England  that  remember  nothing  and  learn 
nothing.  But  the  bloody  experiment  of  Cromwell,  which  failed,  must 
never  be  tried  again.  Forty  millions  of  men  solemnly  declare  that 
IT— MUST— NOT — BE— TRIED— AGAIN. 

Ireland  has  won  by  England’s  own  laws : and  now  if  England 
trample  on  her  own  laws,  and  outrage  Ireland  with  violence  and  law- 
lessness, she  is  a revolutionist  and  a criminal,  to  be  treated  by  the  Irish 
as  a pirate  and  robber  on  land  and  sea. 

Cromwell  had  to  deal  with  less  than  four  million  Irishmen,  who 
were  all  in  Ireland.  Gladstone  has  to  deal  with  five  millions  in  Ireland, 
five  millions  in  Great  Britain,  and  thirty  millions  elsewhere. 

Let  martial  law  be  proclaimed  in  Ireland,  and  at  once  the  Irish  in 
America,  Canada,  and  Australia  are  a solid  body  in  retaliation.  Their 
vast  organizations  would  merge  into  one  tremendous  will,  to  boycott 
everything  English. 

* ***** 

If  to  martial  law  and  disfranchisement  be  added  imprisonment  and 
murder  of  the  people  in  Ireland,  England  will  surely  find  a violent 
answer  from  Irishmen.  She  will  not  be  allowed  to  break  all  laws  of 
God  and  man  with  impunity.  She  will  have  to  watch  and  defend  with 
a knife  every  parcel  of  property  she  possesses.  Her  ships  will  be 
avoided  by  all  travelers,  for  they  shall  be  in  danger  on  every  sea. 
Her  aristocrats  will  have  to  stay  at  home,  or  risk  reprisals  on  their 
treasured  lives  for  the  slaughter  of  humble  people  in  Ireland. 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


277 


Men  who  are  conservative  and  law-abiding,  who  love  peace,  and 
desire  good-will  between  Ireland  and  England,  will  be  compelled  to 
agree  with  those  who  are  sure  to  urge  the  policy  of  desperation  and 
despair. 

In  a word,  England  will  wantonly  and  stupidly  and  criminally 
create  a condition  of  things  which  cannot  possibly  be  for  her  good,  and 
which  will  insure  the  endless  detestation  of  Ireland. 

Martial  law  will  not  settle  the  Irish  question,  and  no  wise  English- 
man would  advise  it. 

“ The  Irish  question  is  mainly  an  Irish- American  question,”  says  the 
London  Times , sneeringly.  And  is  it  not  all  the  more  significant  ? 
The  Irish  in  America  send  millions  on  millions  of  dollars  a year  to  pay 
the  rents  and  feed  their  suffering  kindred  in  Ireland.  This  is  reason 
enough,  without  the  natural  desire  for  freedom. 

If  England  dream  that  the  Irish  in  America  can  be  tired  out  she 
makes  a woeful  mistake.  For  every  thousand  dollars  sent  to-day,  we 
can  send  Ireland  a million  for  the  next  ten  years  if  she  need  it. 

The  Irish  demand  for  Home  Rule  must  be  granted.  If  it  be  refused, 
and  if  the  London  Times  dictate  the  English  policy,  the  evil-doer  will 
suffer  more  than  the  victim.  And  in  the  end,  Ireland  will  have  Home 
Rule. 

Parliament  met  in  January,  and  the  Queen,  a stuffed 
simalacrum  of  royal  authority,  read  the  message  written 
for  her  by  an  intelligent  secretary,  advising  coercion  as  a 
panacea  for  Ireland’s  woes.  In  the  debate  that  followed, 
Mr.  Sexton,  M.P.,  announced  that  the  member  for  Mid- 
lothian, Mr.  Gladstone,  had  expressed  his  approval  of  a 
Home  Rule  measure,  and  the  announcement  was  greeted 
with  an  affirmative  nod  from  the  great  English  Liberal. 
This  simple  motion  of  Gladstone’s  head  caused  those  of 
all  England  to  wag  in  approval  or  denial.  By  the  friends 
of  Home  Rule  it  was  justly  interpreted  as  a sign  of  unqual- 
ified adherence  to  their  cause.  “ Mr.  Gladstone’s  nod,” 
wrote  O’  Reilly,  “ was  more  potent  than  the  Queen’s  speech, 
and  the  royal  Tory  flummery.  Ireland  has  scored  her 
highest  mark  during  this  week.”  But  the  Tories  had  more 
than  one  arrow  in  their  quiver  ; they  had  the  barbed  shaft 
of  bigotry,  and  the  poisoned  one  of  treachery.  Lord  Ran- 
dolph Churchill  was  to  discharge  the  first,  Mr.  Joseph 
Chamberlain  the  second.  Churchill,  a free  lance  and  free- 


278 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


booter  in  politics,  went  over  to  Ireland  in  February  to  sow 
in  the  blood-clotted  Orange  brain  the  seed  of  civil  war. 
Churchill  was  a light  weight,  a “ Sim  Tappertit”  in  relig- 
ious warfare,  but  O’  Reilly  scented  the  more  serious  danger 
in  the  disaffection  of  Chamberlain.  He  said  : 

With  Chamberlain’s  aid,  if  Chamberlain  is  as  false  as  we  believe  him 
to  be,  they  may  defeat  the  Liberals  at  the  next  general  election,  which 
will  possibly  come  this  year.  But  Churchill’s  present  policy  tells  against 
himself.  It  is  not  clever.  It  shows  the  selfish  and  desperate  gambler 
with  the  stocked  sleeve.  It  calls  out  a stern  sentiment  in  England  and 
sets  Mr.  Gladstone  and  all  honest  Liberals  on  guard.  It  will  deter  even 
Chamberlain  from  trusting  his  future  to  such  allies  as  Tappertit  and  the 
Orangemen. 

There  was  a “bread  riot”  in  London,  in  January,  and 
some  people  thought  they  saw  in  it  the  beginning  of  the 
long-delayed  English  commune.  O’  Reilly  knew  the  British 
animal  better.  He  wrote  : 

The  Parisian  or  Russian  rioter  is  urged  by  his  heart  and  soul  and 
head,  but  the  English  rioter  only  obeys  his  stomach. 

The  masses  in  England  are,  with  all  the  boasted  freedom  of  England, 
more  deficient  in  the  spirit  of  liberty,  in  the  dignity  of  humanity,  than 
the  common  people  of  any  other  country.  In  France,  in  the  last 
century,  and  in  Russia  and  Germany  in  this,  the  people  knew  that  the 
luxurious,  immoral,  overbearing  aristocrats  had  more  than  a just  share 
of  the  national  wealth.  In  England,  the  aristocrat,  though  greedier 
and  more  intolerant  than  all  other  “ noblemen,”  is  accepted,  fawned- 
upon,  almost  worshiped  by  the  whole  landless,  shop-keeping,  pen- 
driving, hard-handed  community. 

But  the  worm  will  turn  at  the  cruel  foot.  Where  oppression  fails  to 
provoke  rebellion,  scorn  may  succeed.  Oppression  is  the  heaving  of  the 
sea  ; insult  the  breaking  of  the  billow.  Oppression  is  the  whip  that 
bruises  ; scorn  the  lash  that  cuts.  “ Drive  over  the  dogs ! ” cried  a titled 
lady  to  her  coachman,  in  the  beginning  of  the  late  London  riots.  She 
was  allowed  to  pass.  But  a few  hours  later  the  carriage  of  a great  lady, 
sister  of  the  Duke  of  Abercorn,  was  stopped  in  Piccadilly,  and  when 
the  Countess  showed  her  imperious  temper  (men  do  not  act  like  this 
without  provocation),  one  of  the  mob,  says  a correspondent,  advanced 
to  the  side  of  the  carriage  and  deliberately  slapped  her  face,  exclaiming, 
“We  will  hang  you  yet  ! ” 

But,  after  all,  the  symptoms  are  only  premonitory,  even  if  they  be 
indeed  earthquakes  of  society  and  not  the  mere  shivering  of  the  social 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


279 


skin.  To  the  lower-class  English  mob  a riot  is  as  natural  as  a boil  on  a 
half-starved  beggar.  It  is  a constitutional  sign,  meaning  poverty  of  the 
blood, — and  ignorance. 

We  hear  of  no  demands  by  the  rioters — except  for  bread.  No  word 
has  been  said  about  the  extravagances  of  royalty,  the  vast  robbery  of 
hereditary  pensions,  the  limitless  plunder  of  the  land  of  Great  Britain 
by  a few  thousand  titled  and  untitled  lords  of  men,  the  sale  of  the 
daughters  of  the  poor  to  wealthy  debauchees.  Bread,  bread,  bread, — and 
to  the  dogs  with  liberty  and  dignity  and  manhood ! 

There  is  no  man  to  lead  in  England.  Where  was  the  atheist  Brad- 
laugh  and  the  philistine  Chamberlain  ? Where  was  Arch,  the  pure- 
minded,  tenant-helping  insect?  At  the  head  of  the  50,000  were  only  a 
few  blatherskites  who  had  nothing  to  demand,  nothing  to  reform ! 

The  broad-minded  humanity  of  the  man  made  him  sym- 
pathize even  with  the  poor-spirited  heirs  of  traditionary 
servility,  but  his  patriotic  pride  forced  him  to  add  : 

It  is  a pity  to  see  a spiritual  and  intelligent  nation  like  Ireland  tied 
to  such  a dull  and  soulless  bullock-mass,  and  “governed ” by  it  ! But, 
perhaps  there  is  no  other  way  by  which  the  inert  heap  can  be  vivified, 
except  by  the  chained  lightning  of  Ireland’s  struggle  and  aspiration. 

The  ancients  were  right  when  they  held  the  words  poet 
and  seer  to  be  synonymous.  John  Boyle  O’Reilly  was  a 
man  so  many-sided  that  it  was  hard  for  one  who  knew  but 
one  or  two  of  those  sides  to  understand  the  others  which 
they  did  not  know.  I have  considered  chronology  rather 
than  affinity  in  presenting  the  varied  aspects  of  his  life. 
To  attempt  anything  else  would  be  to  assure  failure.  He 
was  too  great  and  versatile  to  be  classified  and  labeled  as 
common  men  may  be,  and  I have  chosen  to  show  him  as  he 
was,  from  day  to  day,  yet  always  feeling  how  painfully 
deficient  is  that  panorama  of  his  life.  For,  this  man,  who 
could  be  at  one  moment  absorbed  in  dreamy  poesy,  at  the 
next  fired  with  patriotic  fervor,  and  again  boyishly  inter- 
ested in  athletic  sport  or  social  enjoyment,  was  through- 
out all,  and  above  all,  a thoughtful,  earnest  student  of 
social  and  even  of  industrial  problems.  To-day  he  would 
delight  his  gay  comrades  of  “ Bohemia’ ’ with  playful  wit 
and  wild  fancy  ; to-morrow  he  would  attract  the  admiration 
and  compel  the  conviction  of  a group  of  grave  business  men 


280 


JOHN  BOYLE  o’ REILLY. 


by  his  forcible  presentation  of  an  industrial  question, 
behind  which  lay  the  ruling  aspiration  of  his  life — the 
welfare  of  his  native  land. 

To  make  a paradox,  those  who  knew  him  best  thought 
they  knew  him  least  when,  as  constantly  happened,  he 
surprised  them  anew  by  some  fresh  revelation  of  his 
wonderful  versatility.  “ He  is  a poet,  a dreamer,”  said  the 
prosaic  people,  impatient  when  his  honesty  stood  like  a 
stone  wall  before  this  or  that  political  scheme.  “ He  talks 
eloquently  of  Ireland’s  sufferings,”  said  others  ; “ but  what 
has  he  to  say  about  Ireland’s  real  needs  ?”  He  had  this 
to  say,  and  when  he  said  it  before  the  Beacon  Club  of 
Boston,  shrewd,  practical  business  men  that  they  were,  they 
listened  entranced  to  his  masterly,  sensible  plea,  couched 
in  the  language  of  cold  truth. 

The  occasion  was  the  regular  monthly  dinner  of  the  club 
at  the  Revere  House,  on  Saturday,  February  21,  1886  ; liis 
subject:  “The  Industrial  and  Commercial  Aspects  of  the 
Irish  Question.” 

I was  asked  to  speak  on  a question  which  has  no  fun  in  it.  How- 
ever much  humor  there  may  be  attached  to  the  general  characteristics 
of  my  countrymen,  there  is  nothing  but  tragedy  connected  with  the 
industrial  and  commercial  questions  of  Ireland.  The  general  view  of 
Ireland  and  the  Irish  question  is  relegated  to  the  sentimental.  In  truth, 
it  is  one  of  the  most  material  and  practical  of  questions.  Very  few 
men  take  the  trouble  of  questioning  the  statement  that  has  been  given 
to  the  world  by  the  interested  party  for  100  or  200  years.  The  state- 
ment has  been  made  that  the  Irish  people  are  simply  a troublesome, 
purposeless,  quarrelsome  people,  who  could  not  govern  themselves  if 
they  had  an  opportunity.  That  is  the  tribute  which  injustice  pays  in 
all  cases  to  morality.  If  a man  injure  another  man  he  must  also  in- 
jure his  character,  in  order  to  stand  well  in  the  community,  to  justify 
his  own  action,  for  if  he  did  not,  his  fellow-men  would  drive  him  out. 
England  has  injured  the  Irish  people  with  a set  purpose,  and  also  in- 
jured their  industrial  and  commercial  interests.  The  sentimental  ques- 
tion is  simply  the  natural  desire  of  men  to  rule  their  own  country  and 
make  their  own  laws.  The  Greeks  were  applauded  in  London  the 
other  day  when  they  said:  “We  want  to  work  out  the  Greek  purpose 
among  Greeks.”  The  Greeks  are  no  more  a distinct  nationality  than 
the  Irish.  A fight  that  has  gone  on. 750  years  between  a weak 


IIIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


281 


country  and  a very  strong  one  is  assuredly  a fight  based  on  no  weak  or 
worthless  sentiment.  The  Irish  have  never  compromised.  They  have 
been  beaten  because  they  were  weaker,  but  they  have  never  compro- 
mised. They  have  been  rebellious  and  troublesome.  They  have  been 
nationalists  all  the  time.  They  claimed  700,  600,  500  years  ago  pre- 
cisely what  they  claim  to-day,  the  right  to  their  own  country,  to  make 
their  own  laws,  to  work  out  their  own  individual  nationality  among 
men.  If  there  is  to  be  credit  or  discredit  given  them,  they  want  to  earn 
it,  and  to  tell  their  own  faults  or  virtues  to  the  world.  They  do  not 
want  another  nation,  and  an  unfriendly  one,  to  tell  the  world  what 
Ireland  and  its  people  are.  The  ear  of  the  world  has  been  held  by 
England  with  regard  to  Ireland,  particularly  in  this  country,  since  the 
foundation  of  it.  Very  few  men  in  America  who  were  not  Irish  have 
realized  that  the  Irish  question  is,  as  I have  said,  more  largely  material 
than  sentimental.  In  1696,  the  King  of  England  sent  to  Ireland  a 
commission  of  five  men  to  examine  the  country  and  report  to  the  king 
and  council  as  to  the  best  means  of  holding  the  Irish  in  subjection. 
They  had  then  had  500  years  of  continuous  Irish  war.  They  had  real- 
ized the  enormous  advantage  that  Ireland  possessed  in  position.  If 
Ireland  were  on  the  other  side  of  England,  there  would  be  no  Irish 
question.  Ireland  is  on  the  Atlantic  side  of  England.  The  question 
has  always  been  a geographical  one.  Ireland  controls  the  main  points 
for  commerce  with  Northern  Europe ; and  she  has  in  her  own  self  such 
a treasury  of  possible  wealth  as  no  other  nation  has  in  Europe.  This 
commission,  sent  in  1696,  remained  in  Ireland  a year,  and  reported  to  the 
king  in  1697.  The  report  was  summarized  in  these  words  : “There 

are  two  ways  of  holding  Ireland  in  subjection : By  a standing  army  in 
the  hands  of  Englishmen ; and  by  checking  the  growth  of  the  country 
in  trade  and  wealth,  that  it  may  never  become  dangerous  to  England 
anywhere.”  That  was  two  centuries  ago.  The  policy  was  adopted  by 
king  and  council;  and,  no  matter  what  change  of  Whig  or  Tory,  Lib- 
eral or  Conservative  since  came,  for  Great  Britain  there  was  no 
change  for  Ireland.  That  fearful  and  atrocious  policy  continued  until 
the  appointment  of  one  of  the  best  Englishmen,  and  one  of  the  ablest, 
as  Secretary  for  Ireland,  Mr.  John  Morley,  a few  weeks  ago.  There  has 
not  been  a rift  in  that  cloud  between  those  two  dates. 

Three  hundred  years  ago,  the  illustrious  English  poet,  Spenser,  who 
had  lived  for  years  in  Ireland,  thus  described  the  country  : 

“And  sure  it  is  a most  beautiful  and  sweet  country  as  any  under 
heaven,  being  stored  throughout  with  many  goodly  rivers,  replenished 
with  all  sorts  of  fish  abundantly  ; sprinkled  with  many  very  sweet 
islands  and  goodly  lakes,  like  little  inland  seas,  that  will  carry  even 
shippes  upon  their  waters  ; adorned  with  goodly  woods  ; also  filled 
with  good  ports  and  havens  ; besides  the  soyle  itself  most  fertile,  fit  to 


282 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


yield  all  kind  of  fruit  that  shall  be  committed  thereto.  And  lastly, 
the  climate  most  mild  and  temperate.” 

Two  hundred  and  fifty  years  ago,  Sir  John  Davies,  another  eminent 
Englishman,  wrote  about  Ireland  as  follows  : 

‘ ‘ I have  visited  all  the  provinces  of  that  kingdom  in  sundry  jour- 
neys and  circuits,  wherein  I have  observed  the  good  temperature  of 
the  air,  the  fruitfulness  of  the  soil,  the  pleasant  and  commodious  seats 
for  habitations,  the  safe  and  large  ports  and  havens  lying  open  for 
traffic  into  all  the  west  parts  of  the  world  ; the  long  inlets  of  many 
navigable  rivers,  and  so  many  great  lakes  and  fresh  ponds  within  the 
land,  as  the  like  are  not  to  be  seen  in  any  part  of  Europe  ; the  rich 
fishings  and  wild  fowl  of  all  kinds  ; and,  lastly,  the  bodies  and  minds  of 
the  people  endued  with  extraordinary  abilities  by  nature.” 

In  Brown’s  “ Essays  on  Trade,”  published  in  London  in  the  year 
1728,  this  is  the  report  of  Ireland  : 

“ Ireland  is  in  respect  of  its  situation,  the  number  of  its  commodi- 
ous harbors,  and  the  natural  wealth  which  it  produces,  the  fittest  island 
to  acquire  wealth  of  any  in  the  European  seas  ; for,  as  by  its  situation  it 
lies  the  most  commodious  for  the  West  Indies,  Spain,  and  the  Northern 
and  Eastern  countries,  so  it  is  not  only  supplied  by  nature  with  all 
the  necessaries  of  life,  but  can  over  and  above  export  large  quantities 
to  foreign  countries,  insomuch  that,  had  it  been  mistress  of  its  trade,  no 
nation  in  Europe  of  its  extent  could  in  an  equal  number  of  years 
acquire  greater  wealth.” 

“ Ireland,”  says  Newenham,  writing  seventy  years  ago,  on  industrial 
topics,  “greatly  surpasses  her  sister  country,  England,  in  the  aggre- 
gate of  the  endowments  of  nature England,  abounding  in 

wealth  beyond  any  other  country  in  Europe,  cannot  boast  of  one  natu- 
ral advantage  which  Ireland  does  not  possess  in  a superior  degree.” 

All  this  has  been  said  about  a country  that  is  so  poverty-stricken  and 
so  unhappy,  that  the  like  of  it  is  not  seen  in  any  part  of  the  world.  I 
sent  reporters  to  four  houses  in  Boston,  a short  time  ago,  to  ask  how 
much  money  they  had  sold  on  Ireland  during  the  month  of  December, 
and  from  the  1st  of  December  to  the  20th,  those  four  houses  had  sold 
over  $100,000,  in  sums  averaging  $35.  Now,  in  three  weeks,  four 
houses  in  one  city  sold  that  much,  and  I can  assure  you  that  there  is  not 
a city  in  the  United  States,  not  a town  or  hamlet,  whence  that  drain  is 
not  constantly  going  away  to  Ireland.  It  is  going  from  the  mills,  from 
the  mines,  from  the  farms,  from  the  shops,  from  the  servant  girls.  The 
only  advantage  from  that  terrible  loss — a loss  which  must  reach  from 
$50,000,000  to  $70,000,000  a year,  which  is  the  lowest  computation  you 
can  put  on  it, — the  only  value  we  have  in  return  is  in  the  devoted  and 
affectionate  natures  that  could  spare  from  their  earnings  so  much  to 
their  poor  relatives  in  Ireland — for  they  sent  it  to  save  their  people  from 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


283 


eviction  and  starvation ; not  to  make  them  happy  and  comfortable,  but 
to  pay  the  rents  to  the  English  aristocrats,  for  whom  England  has 
legislated.  The  landlords  have  a mortgage  on  the  Irish  in  America, 
through  their  affections.  This  question  has  never  been  between  the 
people  of  the  two  countries,  but  always  between  the  Irish  people  and 
the  English  aristocrat,  the  idle,  profligate  fellow  who  owns  the  land  and 
stands  between  the  two  peoples.  For  him  and  by  him  has  all  the  legis- 
lation for  Ireland  been  made,  and  for  England,  too.  When  the  people 
of  the  two  countries  come  to  settle  the  question  between  them,  depend 
on  it,  they  will  find  a solution.  It  was  only  last  year  for  the  first  time 
in  England  that  the  common  people  became  a factor  in  politics,  when 
2,000,000  working  men  were  admitted  to  this  franchise ; and  it  was  only 
by  their  exercise  of  that  power  that  the  Tory  government  was  prevented 
from  putting  another  coercion  act  in  force  in  Ireland,  when  Lord  Salis- 
bury threatened,  four  weeks  ago,  to  introduce  another  coercion  act  for 
a country  which  was  in  peace,  without  any  reason  whatever  but  the 
will  of  the  landlord  class.  The  only  issue  for  Ireland,  if  the  Tories  had 
remained  in  power  and  Lord  Salisbury  had  carried  out  his  intention, 
would  have  been  rebellion.  Unquestionably,  Ireland  would  have  been 
driven  into  another  hopeless  rebellion,  the  meaning  of  which  it  would 
have  been  hard  to  explain  to  the  outer  world.  I believe  that  when  the 
two  peoples  can  settle  this  question  between  themselves  they  are  going 
to  work  out  the  morality  of  their  relations,  and  that  the  Irish  people 
have  nothing  to  fear,  but  everything  to  hope,  from  the  common  people 
of  Great  Britain.  It  is  not  the  sea,  but  the  separated  pool  that  rots ; and 
so  it  is  not  the  common  people,  but  the  separated  class  of  humanity  that 
rots — the  aristocrat,  the  idle  man,  the  man  on  horseback,  the  fellow 
who  has  ruled  Europe  for  centuries. 

Now,  let  me  go  into  detail  over  that  statement  as  to  the  industrial 
possibilities  of  Ireland.  The  soil  of  Ireland  is  so  fertile  that  it  is  abso- 
lutely unparalleled.  Labor  and  skill  are  the  only  things  necessary  to 
produce  all  over  the  country.  The  soil  needs  no  fertilizer  that  is  not 
at  the  hands  of  the  farmer  all  over  the  country . In  many  extensive 
parts  of  the  country  fertilizers  applied  to  the  soil  kill  the  crops,  for  the 
soil  will  only  bear  a certain  amount  of  nutrition,  and  beyond  that  it 
refuses  to  grow,  unless  left  fallow  for  a year. 

The  climate  is  so  mild  that  the  cattle,  in  the  winter,  are  pastured  in 
the  field,  even  in  the  north.  They  are  not  taken  in,  probably,  an  aver- 
age of  seven  days  in  the  year. 

There  are  136  safe  and  deep  harbors  in  the  island,  a number  not 
possessed  by  any  other  country. 

The  rivers  are  so  deep  and  numerous  that  almost  every  parish 
might  enjoy  the  advantages  of  internal  navigation.  Ireland  has  nine- 
teen navigable  rivers,  with  which  none  of  the  English  rivers  can 
compare. 


284 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


The  fisheries  are  probably  the  richest  in  the  world  ; and  to-day  the 
fishermen  of  the  western  coast  are  kept  from  death  by  starvation  by 
American  charitable  subscriptions. 

With  regard  to  mines  and  minerals,  this  sentence  from  Mr.  Carey, 
grandfather  of  Henry  Carey  Baird,  of  Philadelphia,  will  suffice  : 
“There  is  probably  not  a country  in  the  world,  which,  for  its  extent, 
is  one  half  so  abundantly  supplied  with  the  most  precious  minerals 
and  fossils  as  Ireland.” 

“ In  Tyrone,  Waterford,  Cork,  Down,  Antrim,  and  throughout  Con- 
naught,” says  an  eminent  British  authority,  Mr.  T.  F.  Henderson,  writ- 
ing a few  years  ago,  “ are  immense  stores  of  iron  that  remain  unutil- 
ized. ” The  same  writer  says  that  from  ivhat  can  be  seen , Ireland  has 
at  least  180,000,000  tons  of  available  coal,  from  which  she  raises  yearly 
only  130,000  tons.  Yet  she  imports  over  2,000,000  tons  yearly  from 
England. 

Ireland  has  3,000,000  acres  of  bog-land,  which  supplies  an  enormous 
quantity  of  admirable  fuel.  The  average  depth  of  peat  on  this  is 
twenty-five  feet — in  some  cases  over  forty  feet. 

The  following  summary  of  Irish  mineral  treasures  is  made  from 
official  and  other  surveys  and  reports.  The  figures  prefixed  to  the  dif-  - 
ferent  minerals  and  fossils  denote  the  number  of  counties  in  which 
they  have  been  discovered : 


2 Amethysts. 

16  Lead. 

1 Antimony. 

2 Manganese. 

15  Coal. 

19  Marble. 

1 Cobalt. 

15  Ochres. 

17  Copper. 

2 Pearls. 

1 Chalcedony. 

4 Pebbles. 

8 Crystals. 

2 Petrifactions. 

9 Clays  of  various  sorts. 

1 Porphyry. 

5 Fuller’s  earth. 

1 Sillicious  sand. 

1 Gold. 

3 Silver. 

2 Garnites  (decayed  granite 

6 Slate. 

used  in  porcelain). 

1 Soapstone. 

7 Granite. 

1 Spars. 

1 Gypsum. 

2 Sulphur. 

19  Iron. 

2 Talc. 

2 Jasper. 

A century  ago,  Mr.  Lawson,  an  English  miner,  stated  in  evidence 
before  the  Irish  House  of  Commons  that  the  iron-stone  at  Arigna  lay  in 
beds  of  from  three  to  twelve  fathoms  deep,  and  that  it  could  be  raised 
for  two  shillings  and  sixpence  a ton,  which  was  five  shillings  cheaper 
than  in  Cumberland  ; that  the  coal  in  the  neighborhood  was  better  than 
any  in  England,  and  could  be  raised  for  three  shillings  and  sixpence  a 


285 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 

ton,  and  that  it  extended  six  miles  in  length  and  five  in  breadth.  He 
also  stated  that  fire-brick  clay  and  freestone  of  the  best  qualities  were 
in  the  neighborhood,  and  that  a bed  of  potter’s  clay  extended  there  two 
miles  in  length  and  one  in  breadth.  Mr.  Clark,  on  the  same  occasion, 
declared  that  the  iron  ore  was  inexhaustible.  And  a distinguished  Irish 
authority  on  mineralogical  subjects,  Mr.  Kirwan,  affirmed  that  the 
Arigna  iron  was  better  than  any  iron  made  from  any  species  of  single 
ore  in  England. 

There  is  not  a pound  of  iron  dug  out  of  the  earth  in  Arigna,  and 
there  never  will  be  till  Ireland  controls  her  own  resources  and  can  pro- 
tect them  by  a proper  tariff  till  they  are  in  full  productiveness. 

As  to  water  power — Dr.  Kane,  of  the  Royal  Dublin  Society  and  other 
eminent  scientific  bodies,  summarizes  the  surveys  and  reports:  “The 
water  from  the  rivers  of  Ireland  have  an  average  fall  of  129  yards. 
The  average  daily  fall  of  water  (falling  129  yards)  into  the  sea  is 
68,500,000  tons.  As  884  tons  falling  24  feet  in  24  hours  is  ahorse  power, 
Ireland  has  an  available  water  power,  acting  day  and  night,  from  Janu- 
ary to  December,  amounting  to  1,800,000  horse  power — or,  reduced  to 
300  working  days  of  12  hours  each,  the  available  waterfall  for  industry 
represents  over  3,000,000  horse  power.” 

But  remember,  there  is  hardly  a wheel  turning  in  Ireland.  All  this 
must  go  to  waste,  the  people  must  starve  and  the  land  decay,  that  the 
mill-owners  of  Lancashire  may  thrive.  What  would  the  world  say  of 
New  England,  had  we  the  power,  were  we  to  suppress  all  manufactur- 
ing and  mining  industry  in  the  Southern  States  ? New  England  would 
earn  the  execrations  of  the  country  and  the  world  for  her  avaricious 
selfishness. 

So  marvelous  is  the  water  power  of  Ireland,  that  windmills  are  un- 
known. A hundred  years  ago,  immediately  after  the  freeing  of  her 
Parliament,  there  sprang  up  on  all  the  falling  streams  mills  of  various 
kinds— among  them,  according  to  Dr.  Kane,  240  flour  mills.  There  was 
not  one  windmill  erected  during  all  this  time. 

The  Parliament  of  Ireland  was  free  from  1782  to  1801 — and  during 
this  short  period  the  country  advanced  like  a released  giant  in  every 
field  of  industry  and  commerce.  Then  the  selfishness  of  England  was 
appealed  to  by  the  landlords  and  the  traders,  the  former  leading,  and 
demanding  that  Irish  industry  be  stopped,  suppressed,  murdered  by  act 
of  Parliament.  The  landlords  wished  no  resource  for  their  rack-rented 
tenants.  If  the  children  of  the  farmer  could  go  into  the  mills  and 
shops  to  work  and  earn,  the  father  would  become  independent  of  the 
landlord  and  agent. 

In  1729,  there  were,  according  to  evidence  given  before  the  Irish 
House  of  Commons,  800  silk-looms  at  work  in  Ireland.  An  act  was 
passed  in  that  year  in  favor  of  English  silks  ; and  thirty  years  after, 


286 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


there  were  but  fifty  looms  in  Ireland.  When  the  Union  was  passed,  the 
silk  manufacture  was  utterly  killed. 

One  hundred  years  ago  the  Irish  found  that  they  could  reclaim 
their  peat  land  by  cutting  a ship  canal  through  the  country  from 
Galway  to  Dublin.  They  have  shown  since  that  the  cost  would  be 
more  than  four  times  repaid  by  the  price  of  the  land.  They  showed 
that  they  could  save  sailing  ships  seventy  hours  in  passing  to  and 
from  Northern  Europe,  and  save  them  from  the  dangers  of  the  Chan- 
nel. They  showed  that  ships  sailing  from  the  West  of  Ireland  ob- 
tained an  offing  so  soon  that  they  often  reached  America  before  vessels, 
leaving  England  on  the  same  day,  had  beaten  their  way  out  of  the 
English  channel.  But  the  merchants  of  the  Southern  ports  of  England 
— Bristol,  Southampton,  and  London — said  that  that  canal,  if  cut,  would 
be  disastrous  to  them,  and  the  Parliament  refused  to  allow  it  to  be 
done.  Nineteen  times  the  Irish  people  have  tried  to  cut  that  canal  ; 
but  the  Irish  people  cannot  build  a wharf  or  do  anything  else  that  a 
civilized  community  usually  does  at  its  own  option,  without  going  to 
the  English  House  of  Commons  for  permission  to  do  it. 

In  the  last  century  Ireland  made  the  best  woolen  cloth  in  Europe. 
It  was  said  they  competed  with  England,  and  the  Parliament  put  it 
down.  The  same  law  was  enacted  against  the  leather  trade,  and  then 
against  the  trade  in  raw  hides.  Ireland  obtained  prominence  in  the 
manufacture  of  glass.  English  glassmakers  petitioned  Parliament, 
and  an  act  of  Parliament  was  passed  stopping  the  glass  trade. 

Every  means  of  industry  in  Iceland  has  been  killed  by  act  of  Parlia- 
ment. Every  means  of  honest  development  in  the  country  has  been 
suppressed  by  act  of  Parliament  or  by  the  possession  of  the  land  given 
silently  into  the  hands  of  English  capitalists.  The  coming  question  in 
Ireland  is  purely  commercial  and  industrial.  The  absentee  landlord 
wants  no  alternative  but  one — pay  the  back  rent  or  emigrate.  Men 
like  Hartington,  a Liberal  in  name  but  a Whig  at  heart,  a man 
of  hereditary  possession  and  no  hereditary  production,  will  be  joined 
by  others,  and  depend  on  it  they  will  appeal  to  the  worst  passions  and 
prejudices  and  the  worst  interests  of  the  middle  classes  of  trading  Eng- 
lishmen. 

There  are  about  forty-six  thousand  owners  of  land  in  Ireland. 
They  own  the  whole  country.  They  are  largely  Englishmen  who  live 
out  of  Ireland  and  have  never  seen  it.  They  obtained  possession  in  the 
main  by  confiscation.  In  the  County  of  Derry,  fourteen  London  com- 
panies, such  as  the  vintners,  drysalters,  haberdashers,  etc.,  obtained 
from  King  James  most  of  the  land  of  the  country.  These  companies 
of  London  traders  have  never  seen  the  land  ; they  have  kept  their 
agents  there,  though,  to  raise  the  rents,  generation  after  generation,  as 
the  poor  people  reclaimed  the  soil  from  moor  and  mountain.  In  two 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


287 


centuries  the  rental  has  been  raised  from  a few  hundred  pounds  a year 
to  over  a hundred  thousand  pounds  a year,  the  people  doing  all  the 
improvement  and  losing  in  proportion  to  their  labor,  and  the  avari- 
cious corporations  in  London  drawing  all  the  profits. 

Ireland  asks  for  the  moral  support  of  all  good  men  of  all  nations  in 
her  effort  to  secure  Home  Rule.  Surely,  the  Government  that  has  no 
other  answer  to  give  to  an  industrious,  moral  people,  living  in  so  rich 
a land,  than  starvation  or  emigration,  is  arraigned  and  condemned  in 
the  sight  of  God  and  man,  and  ought  to  be  wiped  out.  The  Govern- 
ment of  England  ought  to  be  taken  from  the  hands  of  the  cruel  and 
senseless  aristocracy  that  has  misruled  so  long  ; and  it  ought  to  be 
passed  into  the  hands  of  the  English  and  Irish  people,  to  whom  it 
belongs. 

Mr.  O’Reilly  closed  his  address  amid  applause,  followed 
by  the  whole  company  rising  and  drinking  a toast  to  ‘ ‘ The 
success  of  the  industrial  and  commercial  questions  of  Ire- 
land, and  their  great  exponent,  John  Boyle  O’Reilly.” 

On  April  8,  Mr.  Gladstone  introduced  his  Home  Rule 
Bill  in  the  British  House  of  Commons.  On  the  following 
night,  Mr.  Chamberlain  sealed  his  treason  by  bitterly  at- 
tacking the  measure  and  its  author.  O’Reilly  did  not  give 
an  unqualified  approval  to  the  bill,  which  deprived  Ireland 
of  representation  in  the  Imperial  Parliament,  and  kept  the 
excise  and  the  constablery  under  the  control  of  the  latter. 
“ It  is  full  of  faults  and  dangers,”  he  said  ; “it  is  Home 
Rule  only  in  name  as  at  present  developed.  The  marks  of 
conceding  and  temporizing  in  Cabinet  council  are  on  every 
clause  outlined.  It  says  Life,  and  it  enacts  Death.”  But 
it  gave  the  grand  central  idea  of  Home  Rule,  and,  “ for 
this  inestimable  boon  Irishmen  are  willing  to  accept  imper- 
fections with  the  hope  of  ultimate  reform.  For  this  offer- 
ing and  the  eloquent  admission  of  its  moral  right,  Irishmen 
throughout  the  world  return  to  Mr.  Gladstone  their  pro- 
found gratitude,  admiration,  and  respect.” 

The  bill  was  defeated,  on  its  second  reading,  in  the  House 
of  Commons,  on  June  17,  by  a vote  of  341  to  311,  where- 
upon the  Gladstone  ministry  was  dissolved  and  went  to  the 
country  for  its  verdict. 

In  championing  Ireland’s  cause,  O’Reilly  did  not  forget 


288 


JOHN  BOYLE  o’ REILLY. 


that  of  other  oppressed  peoples.  “The  color  line”  had 
been  drawn  offensively  at  the  same  time  in  different  parts 
of  the  United  States.  Policemen  in  New  York  had  threat- 
ened to  strike  if  a negro  were  appointed  on  the  force.  A 
High  School  in  Indianapolis  had  dispensed  with  com- 
mencement exercises,  because  eight  girls  of  the  graduating 
class  refused  to  appear  on  the  platform  with  a colored  girl. 
“ To  insult  and  degrade  a free  man  and  tie  his  hands  with 
social  and  statute  wires,  that  cut  and  burn  as  well  as 
restrain,”  wrote  O’Reilly,  “is  worse  than  to  seize  him 

bodily  and  yoke  him  to  a dray  as  a slave The  girls 

who  have  disgraced  themselves  and  their  city  ought  to  be 
marked  with  a scarlet  letter. 

“ Every  fair-minded  man  and  woman  and  child  in 
America  ought  to  seize  these  shameful  facts  as  a reason  to 
make  up  their  minds  on  the  negro  question.  They  ought 
to  say  that  every  policeman  in  New  York  or  elsewhere,  who 
dared  to  say  he  was  better  than  his  colored  fellow-citizen, 
was  unfit  to  wear  the  uniform  of  an  American  city ; and 
that  every  school-girl  who  was  so  un-Christian  and  so  un- 
ladylike as  to  ostracize  a fellow-student  because  her  skin 
was  dark,  was  utterly  unworthy  of  a diploma  from  the 
public  schools.” 

The  massacre  of  colored  men  at  Carrolton,  Miss.,  in 
April,  called  out  an  indignation  meeting  of  the  colored 
citizens  of  Boston,  who  assembled  in  the  Phillips  Street 
Baptist  Church  on  the  evening  of  April  12.  O’Reilly 
vented  his  righteous  indignation  at  the  perpetrators  of  the 
atrocity,  and  uttered  this  timely  word  of  sympathy  and 
encouragement  to  his  colored  hearers  : 

I know  nothing  and  care  nothing  about  your  politics  or  party  pref- 
erences ; but  I know  that  if  I were  a colored  man  I should  use  political 
parties,  as  I would  a club  or  a hatchet,  to  smash  the  prejudice  that  dared 
to  exclude  my  children  from  a public  school,  or  myself  from  a public 
hall,  theater,  or  hotel.  The  interest  you  have  to  protect  and  defend  is 
not  that  of  a party,  but  of  your  own  manhood.  Use  party  as  they  use 
you— for  your  own  best  interests. 

But  the  thing  that  most  deeply  afflicts  the  colored  American  is  not 
going  to  be  cured  by  politics.  You  have  received  from  politics  already 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


289 


about  all  it  can  give  you.  You  may  change  the  law  by  politics  ; but  it 
is  not  the  law  that  is  going  to  insult  and  outrage  and  excommunicate 
every  colored  American  for  generations  to  come.  You  can’t  cure  the 
conceit  of  the  white  people  that  they  are  better  than  you  by  politics,  nor 
their  ignorance,  nor  their  prejudice,  nor  their  bigotry,  nor  any  of  the 
insolences  which  they  cherish  against  their  colored  fellow-citizens. 

Politics  is  the  snare  and  delusion  of  white  men  as  well  as  black. 
Politics  tickles  the  skin  of  the  social  order  ; but  the  disease  lies  deep  in 
the  internal  organs.  Social  equity  is  based  on  justice  ; politics  change 
on  the  opinion  of  the  time.  The  black  man’s  skin  will  be  a mark  of 
social -inferiority  so  long  as  white  men  are  conceited,  ignorant,  unjust, 
and  prejudiced.  You  cannot  legislate  these  qualities  out  of  the  white — 
you  must  steal  them  out  by  teaching,  illustration,  and  example. 

No  man  ever  came  into  the  world  with  so  grand  an  opportunity  as 
the  American  negro.  He  is  like  new  metal  dug  out  of  the  mine.  He 
stands  on  the  threshold  of  history,  with  everything  to  learn  and  less  to 
unlearn  than  any  civilized  man  in  the  world.  In  his  heart  still  ring 
the  free  sounds  of  the  desert.  In  his  mind  he  carries  the  traditions  of 
Africa.  The  songs  with  which  he  charms  American  ears  are  refrains 
from  the  tropical  deserts,  from  the  inland  seas  and  rivers  of  the  dark 
continent. 

At  worst,  the  colored  American  has  only  a century  of  degrading 
civilized  tradition,  habit,  and  inferiority  to  forget  and  unlearn.  His 
nature  has  only  been  injured  on  the  outside  by  these  late  circumstances. 
Inside  he  is  a new  man,  fresh  from  nature, — a color-lover,  an  enthusiast, 
a believer  by  the  heart,  a philosopher,  a cheerful,  natural,  good-natured 
man.  He  has  all  the  qualities  that  fit  him  to  be  a good  Christian  citi- 
zen of  any  country  ; he  does  not  worry  his  soul  to-day  with  the  fear  of 
next  week  or  next  year.  He  has  feelings  and  convictions,  and  he  loves 
to  show  them.  He  sees  no  reason  why  he  should  hide  them. 

The  negro  is  the  only  graceful,  musical,  color-loving  American.  He 
is  the  only  American  who  has  written  new  songs  and  composed  new 
music.  He  is  the  most  spiritual  of  Americans,  for  he  worships  with 
his  soul  and  not  with  his  narrow  mind.  For  him,  religion  is  to  be  be- 
lieved, accepted,  like  the  very  voice  of  God,  and  not  invented,  con- 
trived, reasoned  about,  shaded,  altered,  and  made  fashionably  lucrative 
and  marketable,  as  it  is  made  by  too  many  white  Americans.  As  Mr. 
Downing,  who  preceded  me,  has  referred  to  the  Catholic  religion,  I 
may  be  pardoned  for  saying  that  there  is  one  religion  that  knows  neither 
race,  nor  class,  nor  color  ; that  offers  God  unstintedly  the  riches  and 
glories  of  this  world  in  architecture,  in  painting,  in  marble,  and  in 
music  and  in  grand  ceremony.  There  is  no  other  way  to  worship  God 
with  the  whole  soul  ; though  there  are  many  other  ways  of  worshiping 
him  with  the  intellect  at  so  many  dollars  an  hour,  in  an  economical 


290 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 

church,  a hand-organ  in  the  gallery,  and  a careful  committee  to  keep 
down  the  expenses.  The  negro  is  a new  man,  a free  man,  a spiritual 
man,  a hearty  man  ; and  he  can  be  a great  man  if  he  will  avoid  model- 
ing himself  on  the  whites.  No  race  or  nation  is  great  or  illustrious  ex- 
cept by  one  test — the  breeding  of  great  men.  Not  great  merchants  or 
traders,  not  rich  men,  bankers,  insurance  mongers,  or  directors  of  gas 
companies.  But  great  thinkers,  great  seers  of  the  world  through  their 
own  eyes,  great  tellers  of  the  truth  and  beauties  and  colors  and  equities 
as  they  alone  see  them.  Great  poets — ah  ! great  poets  above  all — and 
their  brothers,  great  painters  and  musicians  and  fashioners  of  God’s 
beautiful  shapes  in  clay  and  marble  and  bronze. 

The  negro  will  never  take  his  stand  beside  or  above  the  white  man 
till  he  has  given  the  world  proof  of  the  truth  and  beauty  and  heroism 
and  power  that  are  in  his  soul.  And  only  by  the  organs  of  the  soul  are 
these  delivered  ; by  the  self-respect  and  self-reflection,  by  philosophy, 
religion,  poetry,  art,  sacrifice,  and  love.  One  poet  will  be  worth  a 
hundred  bankers  and  brokers,  worth  ten  presidents  of  the  United 
States  to  the  negro  race.  One  great  musician  will  speak  to  the  world 
for  the  black  man  as  no  thousand  editors  or  politicians  can. 

Toward  the  middle  of  February  of  this  year  a number 
of  Boston  citizens,  interested  in  the  cause  of  Irish  Home 
Buie,  had  formed  a committee  for  the  purpose  of  soliciting 
subscriptions  for  a parliamentary  fund  to  aid  the  Irish 
members  in  their  political  battle.  Subscriptions  were 
nominally  limited  to  five  dollars.  Other  cities  and  towns 
in  the  State  joined  in  the  canvass  with  such  good  effect  that 
when  the  Boston  committee  held  its  final  meeting  on  July 
17,  John  Boyle  O’Beilly  presiding,  they  were  able  to  re- 
port a total  sum  collected  of  nearly  $24,000.  Men  and 
women  of  all  classes  and  creeds  contributed  generously  to 
the  fund.  A large  part  of  its  success  was  due  to  the  untir- 
ing efforts  of  O’  Reilly,  who  addressed  meetings  night  after 
night  in  various  towns  and  labored  without  rest  for  the 
cause,  until  even  his  sturdy  health  broke  down.  While 
speaking  at  a meeting  at  Watertown,  in  June,  he  was  seized 
with  vertigo  and  compelled  to  leave  the  platform.  His 
physician  forbade  him  to  continue  the  incessant  and  ex- 
haustive work. 

His  reputation  as  a public  speaker  had  steadily  en- 
hanced. As  a lecturer  he  had  always  many  more  offers 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


291 


of  engagements  than  he  could  possibly  accept.  His 
duties  as  editor  and  manager  of  a great  paper  prevented 
him  from  giving  more  time  to  the  platform.  When  he  did 
accept  an  offer  to  deliver  an  oration  he  threw  his  whole 
soul  into  the  work,  and  the  result  was  both  original  and 
striking.  “ You  are  the  orators  of  Decoration  Day,  no 
matter  who  may  be  the  speakers,’’  he  began  his  address  to 
the  Grand  Army  veterans  at  Everett,  Mass.,  on  May  31. 
Who  but  this  clear-sighted  prophet  could  have  so  well  dis- 
cerned the  sophism  of  the  Secession  argument.  “ Secession 
was  a national  and  constitutional  right,”  said  Jefferson 
Davis,  twenty  years  after  the  death  of  the  Confederacy. 

uWhen  men  talk  so  much  about  rights,”  answers 
O’Reilly,  “they  must  be  willing  to  go  to  the  foundation. 
The  bottom  right  is  the  right  of  a man,  not  of  a State.  If 
the  general  Government  had  no  right  to  oppress  States, 
States  had  no  right  to  oppress  men.” 

“ The  Cry  of  the  Dreamer,”  one  of  the  most  touching  of 
all  his  poems,  was  first  published  on  May  8,  1886.  It  is  a 
veritable  cry  of  a natural  man  for  the  natural  life,  u heart- 
weary  of  building  and  spoiling,  and  spoiling  and  building 
again.”  By  a strange  coincidence  there  has  come  to  me, 
at  the  moment  of  writing  about  this  heart-touching  poem, 
a copy  of  a letter  written  by  the  poet,  eight  years  ago,  to 
his  friend,  Charles  Warren  Stoddard,  then  a happy  dweller 
and  dreamer  by  the  summer  seas  of  the  far-away  Hawaiian 
Islands.  It  anticipates  almost  the  very  words  of  his  poet’s 
cry  : 

The  ‘ ‘ Pilot  ” Editorial  Rooms, 

Boston,  June  21,  1882. 

Dear  Stoddard  : 

Your  letter  was  kind,  and  sweet,  and  welcome.  Thank  you.  It 
came  like  a smile,  when  I was  in  a turmoil  of  work  and  care.  I envy 
you  the  laziness,  and  the  islands,  and  the  sun,  and  the  vague  future. 

Men  who  dream  can  be  tortured  by  the  clear-lined  definitions  that 
make  the  paradise  of  the  business  Philistine. 

I am  not  any  longer  a poet ; I am  a city  pack-horse,  with  an  ab- 
stract, sun-bottled  attachment.  I long  to  go  and  lie  down  in  the  clover- 
fields  of  my  boyhood.  I long  to  be  listless  and  dreamy,  and  idle,  and 


292 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


regardless  of  conventionalism.  I long  to  sit  down  and  let  the  busy 
world  go  past.  But  this  longing  must  be  meant  as  a chastening  influ- 
ence. It  can  never  be.  I am  chained  to  the  wheel.  I shall  never  lie 
down  in  the  sunny  grass  till  I lie  in  the  churchyard. 

Never  come  back,  if  you  can  help  it.  Stay  where  men  live,  and  raise 
your  hands  forbiddingly  against  business,  and  thrift,  and  shop  respect- 
ability. 

Good-by  to  you ; but  write  to  me  now  and  again.  I have  your  little 
book  of  idyls.  I send  you  a poem  I read  last  week  which  was  rather 
successful.  I am, 

Yours  very  truly, 


John  Boyle  O’Reilly. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 


“ Boyle’s  Log  ” — No  Memory  for  Dates — A Western  Publisher’s  Offer — 
Speech  of  Welcome  to  Justin  McCarthy — Poem  on  “Liberty  ” — He 
Defends  his  Democracy — “The  Exile  of  the  Gael ’’—Speech  at 
William  O’Brien’s  Reception — Crispus  Attucks— The  British  in 
Faneuil  Hall. 

ABOUT  the  middle  of  June  he  made  another  and  shorter 
canoe  cruise  on  the  beautiful  Merrimac  River,  pay- 
ing a brief  visit  to  the  home  of  his  friend,  Richard  S.  Spof- 
ford,  on  Deer  Isle,  thence  continuing  his  voyage  down  to 
Newburyport  and  Plum  Island.  There,  at  the  summer 
residence  of  his  friend,  Rev.  Arthur  J.  Teeling,  he  spent  a 
quiet,  happy  week  with  occasional  visits  from  his  fellow- 
canoeist,  Edward  A.  Moseley,  Father  Teeling,  and  others. 

On  the  wall  of  the  staircase  he  wrote  a journal  which  he 
entitled  : 

“BOYLE’S  LOG.” 


Alone  in  the  Domus  Tranquilla. 

June  17,  1886.— Came  in  canoe— three  days’  run.  No  books— no 
newspapers — no  bores.  Thank  God,  and  Fr.  Teeling ! 

June  19  —2  P.M.— Still  alone — five  tranquil  and  delicious  days — fish- 
ing, shooting,  canoeing— am  now  waiting  for  my  eels  to  fry — and  one 
flounder,  which  I caught  with  fifty  sculpins.  Dear  old  Ned  Moseley  is 
coming  to-night  to  stay  to-morrow. 

June  21. — Red  Letter  Day.  Alone  in  Domus  Tranquilla — twenty 
years  ago  to-day  I was  sentenced  to  twenty  years’  imprisonment  by  the 
English  Government.  Had  I not  escaped  in  1869,  they  would  to-day 
open  my  cell  door  and  say,  “You  are  free!”  This  is  a good  place  to 
celebrate  the  day — alone — thinking  over  the  changes — the  men — the 
events  of  the  twenty  years ! 

Evening,  June  21. — Celebrated  day  of  sentence  by  a delightful  din- 
ner in  Domus  Tranquilla ; Fr.  Teeling,  Miss  Teeling,  Miss  O’Keeffe,  and 

293 


294  JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 

J.  B.  O’R.  Presented  with  twenty  roses,  “one  for  each  year  of  the 
sentence.” 

June  22. — Attended  school  exhibition — paddled  up  and  down.  In 
the  evening  Fr.  Teeling  came  and  stopped  all  night;  a delightful  even- 
ing’s chat. 

J une  23. — Alone  again — not  a soul  on  the  Point — raining  and  chilly 
— longing  for  home  and  the  dear  ones  there  —will  start  for  Gloucester  in 
the  canoe  on  Tuesday  morning  and  go  home  by  rail. 

God  bless  dear  Domus  Tranquilla  and  its  occupants  ! May  they  all 
enjoy  as  charming  and  invigorating  a stay  in  it  as  mine  has  been ! 

John  Boyle  O’Reilly. 

It. will  be  seen  that  he  writes  “ June  21  ” as  the  date  of 
his  sentence,  which  is  incorrect.  The  real  date  was  July  9. 
I find  similar  chronological  mistakes  made  by  him  on  mat- 
ters wherein  men  of  prosaic  minds  would  have  been  pro- 
saically accurate.  In  regard,  for  instance,  to  the  founding 
of  the  Papyrus  Club,  he  makes  a similar  mistake  when  he 
dates  his  poem,  “Alexander  Young’s  Feast,”  as  having 
been  read  “at  Park’s,  where  the  club  first  met  in  1870.’’ 
The  fact  was,  his  memory  was  unreliable  in  the  matter  of 
dates,  and  such,  to  him,  unimportant  details.  On  this  sub- 
ject he  once  wrote  to  a friend  in  the  following  amusingly 
frank  strain  : 

You  grieve  me  about  the  biography.  I am  so  tired  of  it,  and  it  is 
such  a hopelessly  mixed  biography,  with  every  kind  hand  taking  a 
whack  at  it.  I read  it  in  each  new  phase  with  a new  sensation  of  hor- 
ror and  admiration.  I will  not  send  you  any  part  of  the  Oriental 
story — and  I lay  upon  you  the  Geasa  (which  is  a spell  from  the  remote 
darknesses  held  by  all  seers  of  the  Gael)  not  to  search  for  it  elsewhere. 
And,  as  for  your  “ necessary  dates,”  all  such  things  are  unnecessary. 
Dates  are  only  fit  for  clerks,  and  facts  are  the  opposite  of  truths.  Facts 
are  mere  pebbles  ; unrelated  accretions  of  the  insignificant. 

If  you  want  necessary  truths — here,  I am  a man.  I have  written  a 
poor  little  book  of  poems,  and  I have  sent  it  out  to  be  chopped  into 
mince-meat. 

Seriously,  I do  not  like  the  biographical  notice.  I know  how  kindly 
your  thought  was,  but  if  you  had  to  read  so  many  “stories  of  your 
life  ” that  you  yourself  got  mixed  on  the  truth  and  the  fabricated,  you 
would  hate  it  as  I do. 

In  September,  1886,  he  wrote  his  “Three  Graves,”  and 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


295 


in  the  same  month  his  ringing  cheer  for  the  victory  of  the 
American  yacht  Mayflower : 

Thunder  our  thanks  to  her — guns,  hearts,  and  lips  ! 

Cheer  from  the  ranks  to  her, 

Shout  from  the  banks  to  her — 

“ Mayflower  ! ” Foremost  and  best  of  our  ships. 

In  this  month  also  appeared  the  last  collection  of  his 
poems,  the  little  volume,  “In  Bohemia,”  previously  re- 
ferred to.  Small  as  it  is,  there  is  enough  in  it  to  have 
given  the  author  a place  among  the  foremost  poets  of  his 
age,  had  he  never  written  anything  else. 

An  unexpected  recognition  of  his  literary  fame  came  to 
him  in  the  form  of  the  following  communication  from  a 
short-lived  periodical,  entitled  Literary  Life , printed  in 
Chicago,  by  a publisher  with  the  average  publisher’s  appre- 
ciation of  literary  values  : 

Dear  Sir  : 

We  desire  you  to  contribute  a short  article  of  from  1000  to  2000 
words  for  Miss  Cleveland’s  Magazine,  Literary  Life , on  any  subject 
of  interest  to  our  readers.  Our  terms  for  this  series  of  articles  is  one 
cent  a word.  You  may  possibly  consider  this  a small  remuneration, 
but  as  Literary  Life  is  a young  magazine  it  will,  we  think,  grow  into  a 
better  market  for  writers  in  the  near  future.  While  devoted  to  the 
cause  of  literature  in  the  West,  we  know  that  to  succeed  in  an  eminent 
degree  we  must  enlist  the  services  of  the  ablest  writers,  and  hence 
address  you  this  letter.  Please  let  us  have  your  article  on  time  for  our 
October  issue.  Payment  will  be  made  on  receipt  of  article. 

Out  of  respect  for  literary  people,  and  to  expose  hum- 
bug and  meanness,  O’  Reilly  published  this  flattering  offer 
in  his  paper,  with  his  sharp  reply  : 

I cannot  see  why  you  should  appeal  to  the  charity  of  literary  people 
for  the  benefit  of  your  magazine.  If  your  letter  is  not  an  appeal  for 
charity  it  is  a humiliation  and  a disgrace  to  the  literary  profession. 

He  added  this  comment : 

The  Elder  Publishing  Company  have  advertised  their  magazine  by 
using  the  name  of  Miss  Cleveland  as  its  editor,  and  by  dazzling 
accounts  of  the  enterprise  of  the  firm  in  undertaking  so  expensive  an 
arrangement.  To  buy  articles  from  ‘ ‘ the  ablest  writers  ” (generous 


296 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


flattery)  at  the  rate  of  $10  a thousand  words,  is  the  unseen  part  of  the 
publishers’  dizzy  extravagance.  The  average  payment  for  such  an 
amount  of  literary  work,  from  respectable  publishers,  is  $40  to  $75. 
Literary  Life  is  “a  young  magazine,”  and  if  this  be  its  method  of 
living  it  is  to  be  hoped  that  it  may  be  spared  the  burden  of  old  age. 

Justin  McCarthy,  M.P.,  the  distinguished  Irish  patriot 
and  author,  delivered  an  eloquent  address  on  the  “ Cause 
of  Ireland,”  in  the  Boston  Theater,  on  Sunday  evening, 
October  10.  A reception  and  banquet  were  given  him,  the 
next  evening,  in  the  Parker  House.  O’Reilly  presided 
and  made  the  following  speech  of  welcome  to  the  guest : 

Gentlemen  : You  have  confided  to  me  the  sweetest  duty  of  my 
life — that  of  welcoming  in  your  name,  as  our  guest  and  friend,  a gen- 
tleman whose  genius  and  character  have  won  the  respect  of  the  world, 
one  who  has  held  high,  among  strangers,  the  ancient  name  and  honor 
of  the  Irish  race. 

In  the  name  of  the  Irish- American  citizens  of  Boston  and  Massa- 
chusetts, Mr.  Justin  McCarthy,  I express  to  you  the  deep  pride  we  feel 
in  the  fame  and  eminence  you  have  achieved  in  the  high  and  arduous 
field  of  letters,  the  admiration  we  cherish  for  your  genius,  and  the 
gratitude  and  affection  we  offer  for  your  unselfish  loyalty  to  Ireland. 
You  are  one  who  need  not  stand  on  national  or  race  lines  in  receiving 
a welcome.  Wherever  men  are  cultured  and  intellectual,  your  welcome 
awaits  you.  But  for  your  own  gratification  we  place  you  on  the  line 
of  nationality  and  race — a line  that  we  ourselves  are  voluntarily  oblit- 
erating and  writing  anew  as  Americans.  We  are  done  with  Ireland, 
except  in  the  love  and  hope  we  and  our  children  have  for  her.  Were 
Ireland  free,  to-morrow,  we  would  continue  our  lives  as  Americans. 
Our  numbers  and  interests  are  so  great  and  so  deep  here  that,  para- 
phrasing the  words  of  your  distinguished  national  leader,  we  can’t  spare 
a single  Irish- American.  But,  nevertheless,  we  leave  others  to  greet 
you  as  a cosmopolitan,  as  a poet,  as  a novelist,  as  a historian ; and  we 
speak  the  welcome  of  the  heart,  because  we  Irish- Americans  are  proud 
of  you  as  an  Irishman.  We  know  how  hard  it  is  for  one  living  under 
the  British  Crown  to  be  at  once  an  Irish  patriot  and  a successful  man 
of  letters.  Men  of  other  professions  may  harmonize  their  callings  with 
this  deadly  sin,  and  succeed;  but  the  author  is  allowed  no  concealment; 
he  lives  by  his  individuality,  more  than  other  professional  men;  be- 
tween the  lines  he  cannot  help  telling  the  secret  of  his  own  profound 
convictions ; he  must  either  write  himself  or  a lie — and  lies  are  failures, 
and  shall  be  forever. 

Impoverished  and  oppressed,  Ireland  is  no  field  for  literary  fame  or 


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HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 

fortune.  Poor  Ireland  is  a fruitful  mother  of  genius,  but  a barren 
nurse.  Irishmen  who  write  books  must  gravitate  to  London.  Ireland 
deplores  her  absentee  landlords ; but  she  has  reason  as  deep  to  deplore 
her  absent  men  of  genius.  England  has  gathered  brilliant  Irishmen  as 
she  would  have  gathered  diamonds  in  Irish  fields,  and  set  them  in  her 
own  diadem.  She  left  no  door  open  to  them  in  Ireland.  She  threw 
down  the  schools  and  made  the  teacher  a felon,  in  the  last  century,  to 
insure  that  Irishmen  should  read  and  write  English  books,  or  give  up 
reading  and  writing  altogether.  She  frowned  the  name  of  Ireland  out 
of  Goldsmith’s  “Deserted  Village  she  emasculated  Tom  Moore;  she 
starved  out  Edmund  Burke  till  he  gave  her  his  life-long  splendid  service. 
She  seduced  many  able  Irishmen  and*  hid  them  away  under  English 
titles  of  nobility,  so  that  their  very  names  were  lost — forgotten ; as  the 
brilliant  grandson  of  Brinsley  Sheridan  is  lost  in  Lord  Dufferin ; as 
Henry  Temple  was  forgotten  in  Lord  Palmerston ; or  as  Margaret  Power 
of  Tipperary  was  transformed  into  the  illustrious  Countess  of  Blessing- 
ton.  This  is  the  bitterest  pang  of  conquest.  The  conqueror  does  not 
utterly  destroy.  He  does  not  say  to  the  victim,  “I  will  kill  you  and 
take  all  you  have.”  He  says,  “You  may  go  on  living,  working,  and 
producing.  But  all  of  good,  and  great,  and  illustrious  that  you  pro- 
duce are  mine  and  me ; all  of  evil,  and  passionate,  and  futile  you  pro- 
duce are  yours  and  you  ! ” 

This  was  the  spirit  that  swept  from  Ireland  all  the  honor  and  profit 
of  such  illustrious  sons  as  Berkeley,  Steele,  Sheridan,  Burke,  Balfe, 
Wallace,  Maclise,  Macready,  Hamilton,  Tyndall,  Wellington,  Wol- 
seley  (a  voice — “And  O’Reilly  ’’)  and  the  hundreds  and  thousands  of 
Irish  men  and  women  who  have  won  distinction  in  letters,  art,  law,  war, 
and  statesmanship. 

Honor  and  emolument,  pay  and  pension,  were  only  to  be  earned  by 
Irishmen  at  the  price  of  denationalization.  The  marvel  is  that  under 
such  a system  Ireland  could  go  on  producing  great  men.  “ National 
enthusiasm  is  the  great  nursery  of  genius.”  When  you  destroy  national 
enthusiasm  and  pride,  you  have  killed  a nation.  To  destroy  Ireland  as 
a nation,  she  must  not  only  be  conquered,  she  must  be  obliterated. 
Her  people  must  be  swept  away  and  the  land  filled  with  Englishmen. 
And  even  then  the  latent  life  in  the  soil,  the  traditions,  the  sacrifices, 
the  buried  patriotism,  would  come  out  like  an  atmosphere  and  be 
breathed  into  the  blood  of  the  newcomers,  until  in  a generation  or  two 
they  would  be  as  Irish  and  as  distinct  as  the  original  Celtic  people. 
Irishmen  cannot  become  provincials.  Everything  about  them  indi- 
cates distinct  nationality.  They  may  consent  to  change,  as  we  are 
doing  in  America,  joyfully  and  with  pride  ; but  the  Irishman  in  Ire- 
land can  never  be  made  a West  Briton. 

The  world  knows  it  now.  No  matter  what  odds  are  against  Ireland, 


298 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


she  must  win.  “ Depend  upon  it,”  said  Burke,  a century  ago,  speaking 
of  the  Americans,  “depend  upon  it,  the  lovers  of  freedom  will  be  free.” 
Twenty  years  ago  the  illustrious  Englishman  who  is  now  the  leader  of 
the  English  people,  no  matter  who  may  be  the  Prime  Minister, — the 
great  and  good  man  who  has  proved  to  the  world  that  Irishmen  and 
Englishmen  can  forget  and  forgive  and  live  as  loving  friends, — this 
noble  statesman  who  is  bent  on  strengthening  England  by  the  friend- 
ship of  Ireland — Mr.  Gladstone — twenty  years  ago,  defending  a reform 
bill,  said  to  the  Tories,  what  he  says  to-day  for  Ireland,  “ You  cannot 
fight  against  the  future.  Time  is  on  our  side  ! ” How  profoundly  Ire- 
land is  moved  by  her  love  of  freedom  is  proved  by  such  men  as  Justin 
McCarthy,  tested  by  their  ability  and  illustrated  by  their  poverty.  Sir, 
we  know  that  you  are  a poor  man  ; and  we  love  and  honor  you  for 
your  poverty,  for  we  know  that  it  is  the  price  of  your  principle.  In- 
stead of  being  the  governor  of  a great  British  province,  or  of  sitting  in 
high  imperial  office,  with  the  title  of  Lord  or  Earl,  as  so  many  pur- 
chasable and  weaker  men  have  done,  Justin  McCarthy  comes  to 
America,  with  the  simple  title  of  his  own  genius, — and  we  recognize  it 
as  a prouder  coronet  than  that  conferred  by  king  or  kaiser.  In  his 
young  manhood,  he  came  to  where  the  two  roads  met,  the  one  leading 
to  affluence  and  title  and  the  friendship  of  his  country’s  oppressor,  and 
the  other  to  the  poverty  and  trial  and  the  love  of  his  own  oppressed 
people  ; and  without  hesitation  or  regret  he  went  down  into  the  valley 
with  the  struggling  masses.  This  is  the  test  of  a noble  man. 

“ Then  to  side  with  Truth  is  noble,  when  we  share  her  wretched 
crust, 

Ere  her  cause  bring  fame  and  profit,  and  ’tis  prosperous  to  be 
just ; 

Then  it  is  the  brave  man  chooses,  while  the  coward  stands  aside, 

Doubting  in  his  abject  spirit,  while  his  Lord  is  crucified, 

And  the  multitude  make  virtue  of  the  faith  they' have  denied.” 

Justin  McCarthy  has  not  only  written  “The  History  of  Our  Own 
Times,”  but  he  has  done  much  to  make  it.  On  his  leaving  home  for 
America,  the  leader  of  the  Irish  people,  Mr.  Parnell,  spoke  of  him  as 
“the  most  distinguished  Irishman  in  the  world.”  Mr.  Parnell  can 
afford  to  praise  ; but  he  could  only  afford  to  praise  one  man  in  such 
terms.  For  all  the  triumphs  of  his  genius,  we  honor  Justin  McCarthy; 
for  his  unselfishness,  we  respect  him ; for  his  poverty,  we  reverence  him ; 
but  for  his  love  of  Ireland,  and  his  devotion  to  the  national  cause  and 
the  welfare  of  her  people,  we  love  him.  And  I ask  you,  gentlemen,  to 
drink,  “ Long  life  and  happiness  to  Justin  McCarthy  1 ” 

It  was  the  rare  privilege  of  O’Reilly  to  be  appreciated 
and  loved  during  liis  life  as  few  men  have  ever  been  loved. 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


299 


The  praise  which  he  received  never  spoiled  his  simple, 
manly  nature.  Men  could  speak  to  him  and  write  of  him 
from  the  fullness  of  their  hearts  without  fearing  to  be  mis- 
taken for  flatterers,  or  to  sow  any  seed  of  vanity  in  his 
healthy  mind.  So  it  was  that  such  words  of  frank  praise 
as  the  following  could  be  written  of  him  while  he  was  yet 
among  us.  The  first  extract  is  from  the  Boston  PosPs 
kindly  essayist,  heretofore  quoted  in  these  pages,  “ Tav- 
erner’ ’ : 

Boyle  O’Reilly’s  speech  of  welcome  to  Justin  McCarthy  made  me 
almost  sorry  that  I had  not  come  to  my  Americanism  by  the  way  of 
“ Sweet  Erin.”  His  heart  is  so  warm,  his  words  so  well  chosen  and 
charming,  his  feelings  so  true,  and  all  that  he  says  or  writes  so  instinct 
with  human  earnestness,  that  he  always  carries  his  audience  with  him. 
He  is  one  whom  children  would  choose  for  their  friend,  women  for 
their  lover,  and  men  for  their  hero. 

Probably  no  man  among  us  has  had  more  of  real  romance  and 
adventure,  more  of  patriotic  sacrifice  and  suffering,  more  of  heroic 
achievement  in  real  life  than  he,  from  which  he  draws  his  inspiration. 
To  very  few  is  it  given  to  be  the  poet  or  patriot  above  his  fellows,  and 
he  is  both. 

It  was  a strange  juxtaposition  that  gave  him,  an  Irishman,  pro- 
scribed and  outlawed  from  England,  the  opportunity  of  welcoming  in 
America,  from  a place  of  honor,  a man  who  stood  in  Parliament,  one 
of  the  foremost  statesmen  and  historians  of  the  British  empire.  Few,  if 
any,  could  have  made  the  address  O’Reilly  made;  no  man  not  born 
with  the  heritage  of  Irish  blood  could  have  compassed  its  peculiar 
poetry  ; no  man  not  in  the  enjoyment  of  political  freedom  could  have 
equaled  its  proud  independence.  He  was  as  good  an  American  as  he 
was  an  Irishman,  and  linked  freedom  and  poetry.  His  quotation  from 
Burke,  “the  lovers  of  freedom  will  be  free,”  suggested  the  words  of 
another  poet,  Swinburne: 

“Free — and  I know  not  another  as  infinite  word.” 

He  has  shown  the  kinship  of  nature,  for  not  only  does  American 
pride  inspire  in  his  Irish  heart,  but  his  poetry  and  fervor  have  fairly 
made  Irish  blood  tingle  in  the  veins  of  a true  Yankee. 

* * * * * * 

To  the  Editor  of  the  Post : 

I cannot  say  that  I am  an  admirer  of  “Taverner,”  and  his  work,  as 
a rule.  But  will  you  allow  me  to  express  my  thorough  appreciation  of 
his  reference  to  one  of  Erin’s  dearest  sons— Boyle  O’Reilly— in  your 
issue  of  to-day  ? 


300 


JOHN  BOYLE  o’KEILLY. 


I don’t  know  where  one  could  look,  even  in  Thackeray,  for  so  per- 
fect a pen -picture  of  the  manly  man.  It  was  my  great  pleasure  to  know 
Mr.  O’Reilly  somewhat  intimately  for  several  years  ; and  it  has  often 
been  my  still  greater  pleasure  to  speak  most  warmly  of  him  ; but  in  the 
future,  in  referring  to  him,  I shall  only  quote  “Taverner’s”  descrip- 
tion, “ He  is  one  whom  children  would  choose  for  their  friend,  women 
for  their  lover,  and  men  for  their  hero.” 

Was  the  sanspeur  et  sans  reproche , which  has  characterized  another 
knight  for  centuries,  worth  more  than  this  ? C. 

And  here  is  another  graceful  tribute  from  a brother 
poet  on  the  occasion  of  uIn  Bohemia”  reaching  its 
second  edition : 

WRITTEN  IN  JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY’S  “IN  BOHEMIA.” 

Singers  there  are  of  courtly  themes — 

Drapers  in  verse — who  would  dress  their  rhymes 
In  robes  of  ermine  ; and  singers  of  dreams 
Of  gods  high-throned  in  the  classic  times  ; 

Singers  of  nymphs,  in  their  dim  retreats — 

Satyrs,  with  scepter  and  diadem  ; 

But  the  singer  who  sings  as  a man’s  heart  beats 
Well  may  blush  for  the  rest  of  them. 

I like  the  thrill  of  such  poems  as  these — 

All  spirit  and  fervor  of  splendid  fact — 

Pulse  and  muscle  and  arteries 
Of  living,  heroic  thought  and  act, 

Where  every  line  is  a vein  of  red 
And  rapturous  blood,  all  unconfined, 

As  it  leaps  from  a heart  that  has  joyed  and  bled 
With  the  rights  and  the  wrongs  of  all  mankind. 

James  Whitcomb  Riley. 

The  unveiling  of  Bartholdi’ s great  statue  of  “ Liberty  ” 
took  place  in  New  York  Harbor,  on  October  28.  O’Reilly 
wrote  for  the  New  York  World,  on  this  occasion,  his  poem 
“Liberty  Lighting  the  World.”  In  it  he  propounds,  in 
capital  letters,  the  creed  of  Liberty  : 

Nature  is  higher  than  Progress  or  Knowledge,  whose  need  is 
ninety  enslaved  for  ten  ; 

My  words  shall  stand  against  mart  and  college  : The  planet 
BELONGS  TO  ITS  LIVING  MEN  1 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


301 


The  independent  attitude  taken  by  O’Reilly  in  his 
journal  toward  the  un-American  policy  of  Secretary  Bay- 
ard left  the  editor  open  to  misconstruction  as  an  enemy  of 
the  Administration,  if  not  a virtual  opponent  of  the  Demo- 
cratic party.  Nothing  could  be  further  from  the  truth, 
especially  in  regard  to  the  last  of  these  charges.  His 
Democracy  was  as  much  a part  of  him  as  the  blood  in  his 
veins.  He  opposed  the  un-Democratic  conduct  of  men  like 
Secretary  Bayard,  Minister  Phelps,  and  others  whom  Presi- 
dent Cleveland  had  unwisely  placed  and  retained  in  high 
office.  O’  Reilly  criticized  his  party  because  he  was  loyal 
to  it ; a time-server  would  have  flattered  it,  right  or  wrong. 

But  because  of  this  misunderstanding,  it  happened  that 
at  a Republican  meeting  in  Lynn,  in  October,  1886,  the 
Pilof  s remarks  on  Secretary  Bayard  were  quoted  by  ex- 
Governor  John  D.  Long  and  Mr.  Henry  Cabot  Lodge. 
The  former  said,  “I  have  been  listening  with  very  much 
interest  to  the  address  of  your  next  representative  in  Con- 
gress, and  to  his  candid  speech.  I do  not  find  the  diffi- 
culty that  he  seems  to  find  in  interpreting  the  utterance 
of  that  brave,  true,  conscientious  Irishman,  John  Boyle 
O’Reilly,  the  editor  of  the  Pilot ; and,  while  he  writes  for 
the  Democratic  party,  you  would  find  that  those  are  not 
his  true  sentiments  ; that  he  is  with  us  and  would  vote  for 
that  which  would  protect  the  honor  of  the  country  and  the 
honor  of  our  flag,  even  with  Blaine  at  the  head.”  O’  Reilly 
replied : 

Mr.  Long  did  not,  we  believe,  mean  to  be  offensive,  but  he  was  so. 
How  could  he  place  such  adjectives  as  ‘ ‘ brave,  true,  conscientious  ” 
before  the  name  of  a man  whom  he  believed  to  be  writing  for  one  party 
words  that  “ were  not  his  true  sentiments,”  while  he  was  secretly  in 
sympathy  with  the  opposing  party?  It  was  hasty  speaking,  Mr.  Long; 
but  that  is  not  sufficient  explanation.  It  was  taking  a liberty  that  sur- 
prised us  from  such  a source.  However,  it  gives  the  editor  of  the  Pilot 
an  opportunity  for  saying  that  he  has  known  the  Republican  party  to 
be  attentive  to  Irish-American  views  only  since  it  lost  power,  and 
wanted  to  regain  it.  For  twenty  years  it  had  power,  and  during  that 
time  “ the  honor  of  our  flag,”  so  far  as  it  was  involved  in  the  imprison- 
ment of  American  citizens  in  Ireland,  without  trial  or  charge,  was 


302 


JOHN  BOYLE  o’ REILLY. 

deliberately  and  offensively  ignored.  He  knows  that  up  to  a year  or  so 
ago  the  usual  Republican  phrase  for  citizens  of  Irish  birth  or  extraction 
was,  “ the  dangerous  classes.”  He  knows  that,  because  in  the  City  of 
Boston,  where  the  majority  of  the  population  is  now,  or  is  rapidly  be- 
coming, Irish- American,  the  Republican  Legislature  has  trampled  on 
the  first  principle  of  our  government — local  self-government — admit- 
tedly to  prevent  these  citizens  from  exercising  their  rightful  powers. 
He  knows  that  the  Republican  machine  has  been  annually  used  to  pre- 
vent the  naturalization  of  aliens.  These  are  a few  of  the  local  reasons 
why  Mr.  O’Reilly  is  not  a Republican. 

O’Reilly  presided  at  Justin  McCarthy’s  farewell  lecture 
in  the  Boston  Theater,  February  27,  and  five  days  later 
delivered  his  own  great  lecture  on  ‘ ‘ Illustrious  Irishmen 
of  One  Century,”  before  an  audience  of  3000,  in  Grand 
Army  Hall,  Brooklyn,  1ST.  Y.  Justin  McCarthy  was  on 
the  stage  and  received  another  graceful  tribute  from  the 
lecturer. 

On  St.  Patrick’s  Bay,  1887,  the  poet  read  his  “ Exile 
of  the  Gael,”  before  the  Charitable  Irish  Society  of  Boston, 
on  the  one  hundred  and  fiftieth  anniversary  of  the  found- 
ing of  the  association.  It  is  a noble  tribute  to  the  expa- 
triated children  of  Ireland,  its  best  passage  being  that  in 
which  he  tells  what  the  exiles  have  brought  with  them  to 
the  new  country: 

No  treason  we  bring  from  Erin — nor  bring  we  shame  nor 
guilt  ! 

The  sword  we  hold  may  be  broken,  but  we  have  not  dropped 
the  hilt  ! 

The  wreath  we  bear  to  Columbia  is  twisted  of  thorns,  not 
bays  ; 

And  the  songs  we  sing  are  saddened  by  thoughts  of  desolate 
days. 

But  the  hearts  we  bring  for  Freedom  are  washed  in  the  surge 
of  tears  ; 

And  we  claim  our  right  by  a People’s  fight,  outliving  a thou- 
sand years. 

In  introducing  the  poem,  he  uttered  one  of  his  pithy 
sayings:  “We  can  do  Ireland  more  good  by  our  Ameri- 
canism than  by  our  Irishism.” 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


303 


In  response  to  a request  from  the  New  York  World, 
O’Reilly  wrote  his  poem  “ The  Press  Evangel,”  for  an  an- 
niversary number  of  that  journal,  which  had  then  attained 
a daily  circulation  of  a quarter  of  a million  copies. 

Queen  Victoria  celebrated,  in  1887,  the  jubilee  anniversary 
of  her  accession  to  the  throne.  “ Why  should  not  Ireland 
jubilate  over  Queen  Victoria’s  benignant  rule?”  asked 
O’Reilly. 

According  to  the  eminent  statistician,  Mulhall,  quoted  by  Mr.  Glad- 
stone recently  in  the  House  of  Commons,  the  following  figures  attest 
the  blessings  enjoyed  by  Ireland  during  the  past  glorious  fifty  years  : 

Died  of  famine, . 1,225,000  persons. 

Evicted, . 3,568,000  persons. 

Exiled, 4,185,000  persons. 

The  bulk  of  the  exiles  came  to  America,  where  they  have  produced, 
according  to  the  same  statistician,  wealth  to  the  amount  of  $3,275,000,- 
000.  Let  us  do  Her  Avaricious  Majesty  the  justice  to  say  that  the  last 
item  will  strike  her  soul  with  genuine  regret.  For  the  rest,  Irishmen 
should  be  as  thankful  for  the  reign  of  Victoria  as  they  might  be  for  the 
plagues  of  Egypt. 

William  O’Brien,  M.P.,  paid  a visit  to  America  in  May, 
being  warmly  received  throughout  the  United  States,  and 
having  his  life  attempted  in  Canada.  On  his  arrival  in 
Boston  he  was  given  a public  reception  in  the  Boston 
Theater,  on  Sunday  evening,  May  29.  Nearly  5000  people 
were  present.  John  Boyle  O’Reilly  presided  and  intro- 
duced the  Irish  patriot  in  the  following  speech  : 

Ladies  and  Gentlemen  : This  immense  meeting  of  the  people  of 
Boston  is  the  first  note  of  the  American  celebration  of  the  Queen  of 
England’s  jubilee.  It  is  a meeting  of  welcome  and  honor — and  also  of 
indignation  and  protest.  We  honor  a distinguished  and  devoted  patriot, 
who  came  to  this  continent  in  the  interests  of  a poor  and  oppressed 
people,  and  who  has  told  in  burning  words  their  woeful  story  to  every 
heart  in  two  English-speaking  nations,  appealing  against  their  oppressor, 
not  in  passion  or  violence,  but  in  the  spirit  of  true  reform,  of  argument 
and  public  morality.  We  protest,  as  Massachusetts  citizens,  against  the 
legalized  degradation  of  men,  by  which  a single  aristocrat  has  power  to 
sweep  from  their  homes  hundreds,  aye,  thousands  of  industrious  and 
virtuous  people  and  banish  them  from  their  native  land  forever.  We 


304 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’EEILLY. 

protest,  as  Americans,  against  a ruler  on  this  continent,  in  the  adjoin- 
ing country,  who  tramples  upon  the  law  of  the  land,  who  smiles  appro- 
bation upon  passionate  mobs,  bent  upon  outrage  and  murder — who 
openly  congratulates  the  country  he  rules  because  lawless  violence  has 
suppressed  the  rights  of  public  meeting  and  free  speech — who  has  no 
other  answer  to  a criminal  charge  against  himself  than  hisses  and  yells 
and  paving  stones  and  pistols.  Not  in  one  Canadian  city,  nor  on  one 
sudden  and  unexpected  day,  was  this  resort  to  anarchy  and  mob  rule 
allowed  and  approved,  but  in  many  of  the  chief  cities  of  Canada,  one 
by  one, — day  after  day. 

We  tell  this  ruler  that  it  is  our  interest  and  duty,  as  Americans  and 
lovers  of  liberty  and  order,  to  protest  against  lawlessness  and  revolution 
on  this  continent  in  every  country  north  of  the  Isthmus.  We  tell  him 
that  when  a ruler  breaks  the  law  and  depends  for  his  defense  on  the 
bludgeons  and  revolvers  of  a besotted  mob,  he  has  taken  the  manacles 
off  anarchy  ; he  has  appealed  to  the  flames  for  protection  ; he  has  let 
revolution  loose  ! 

We  want  no  mobs  or  revolutions  in  America, — and  least  of  all  revo- 
lutions in  the  interests  of  privilege  and  caste  and  foreign  power.  Bos- 
ton knows  the  difference  between  mobs  and  revolutions.  Her  history 
tells  her  that  a mob  is  a disease,  while  a revolution  is  a cure ; that  a mob 
has  only  passion  and  ignorance,  while  a revolution  has  conviction  and 
a soul  ; that  a mob  is  barren,  while  a revolution  is  fruitful  ; that  the 
leaders  of  a mob  are  miscreants  to  be  condemned,  while  the  leaders  of 
a revolution  are  heroes  to  be  honored  forever. 

Here  in  Boston,  117  years  ago,  a crowd  of  citizens  attempted  to 
drive  out  of  the  streets  the  foreign  soldiers,  whose  presence  was  an  in- 
sult and  outrage.  The  leader  of  the  crowd  was  a brave  colored  man 
named  Crispus  Attucks,  who  was  the  first  American  killed  by  an  Euglish 
bullet  in  the  Revolution.  The  Tories  said  then,  and  they  kept  saying  it 
still,  that  that  crowd  of  patriotic  citizens  was  a mob  ; and  that  Crispus 
Attucks  and  Maverick  and  Gray  and  Patrick  Carr,  who  were  killed 
with  him,  were  rioters  and  criminals.  But  the  State  of  Massachusetts 
says  : “ Not  so  ! They  were  heroes  and  martyrs,  and  this  year  a mon- 
ument to  their  deathless  memory  shall  be  raised  on  the  spot  where  their 
blood  was  shed.”  Compare  this  result  with  the  pro-slavery  mobs  of 
half  a century  ago — the  well-dressed  and  respectable  mobs  of  Phila- 
delphia and  Boston — the  mobs  composed  of  “our  first  famiHes.” 

Half  a century  ago  a pro-slavery  mob  howled  down  the  eloquent 
voice  of  Birney  in  Cincinnati,  and  threw  his  presses  and  type  into  the 
Ohio  River.  About  the  same  time  a Philadelphia  mob  burned  the  hall 
of  the  Abolitionists  in  that  city  ; an  aristocratic  first-family  mob 
publicly  flogged  the  benevolent  Amos  Dresser  in  the  streets  of  Nash- 
ville ; a respectable  Beacon  Street  mob  dragged  William  Lloyd  Garri- 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


305 


son  to  a lamp-post  in  Boston.  Where  are  slavery  and  pro-slavery 
now  ? And  on  which  side  are  the  leaders  and  the  respectable  people  of 
the  pro-slavery  mobs  now  ? The  seed  sown  by  Garrison  and  Birney 
and  Wendell  Phillips  was  God’s  own  seed,  and  it  took  only  a quarter  of 
a century  to  bring  it  to  God’s  own  harvest.  The  seed  sown  in  Ireland 
and  in  Canada  by  the  devoted  Irish  leaders  will  ripen  in  less  time . 

The  American  Abolitionists  were  lawless  men,  according  to  the 
statutes.  The  Irish  Nationalists  are  not  even  lawless  according  to 
English  statutes  until  a new  and  atrocious  statute  has  to  be  invented 
to  make  them  so.  In  their  resistance  to  this  lawless  law  every  Ameri- 
can heart  is  with  them.  “ I pity  a slave,”  said  Wendell  Phillips,  “ but 
a rebellious  slave  I respect.”  The  rebellious  slave  always  succeeds — the 
future  fights  for  him.  Let  us  suppose  for  a moment  that  the  riotous 
Boston  of  fifty  years  ago  has  returned  ; that  a howling  mob  is  rushing 
up  Washington  Street  yelling  for  the  blood  of  Garrison  and  Phillips. 
With  the  light  of  the  last  half  century  upon  us,  let  us  suppose  that  into 
this  hall,  into  this  great  meeting,  those  hunted  men  should  rush  for 
protection — Garrison  and  the  young  Wendell  Phillips — bareheaded, 
wounded,  stricken  by  stones,  followed  by  curses  and  revolver  shots. 
What  a welcome  would  await  them  here  ! How  the  great  throbbing 
heart  of  Boston  would  cover  and  shield  them  like  a mother!  How  the 
manhood  of  Boston  would  respect  and  love  them  ! What  a shout  of 
horror  and  indignation  would  arise  to  warn  their  brutal  and  cowardly 
aggressors  ! 

We  are  here  to  welcome  one  who  embodies  the  spirit  of  Garrison  and 
Phillips ; one  who  went  unarmed  and  clear-eyed  to  face  the  danger,  to 
attack  the  wrong-doer  in  his  high  place,  for  the  sake  of  the  poor  and 
oppressed ; one  who  represents  in  perfection  the  manly  and  moral  side 
of  a great  question  and  a brave  nation ; one  who  has  come  to  us  wounded 
and  breathless  from  the  fury  of  the  mob,  in  whose  ears  still  ring  the 
death -yell  and  the  crack  of  the  revolver ; a man  who  is  the  very  type 
and  idol  of  his  nation — the  fearless  editor  and  patriot,  William  O’Brien. 

The  Massachusetts  Legislature  having  voted  to  erect  a 
monument  in  Boston,  in  honor  of  Crispus  Attucks  and  the 
other  victims  of  the  Boston  Massacre,  a vigorous  attempt 
was  made  by  certain  gentlemen  of  Tory  proclivities  to  pre- 
vent the  carrying  out  of  the  measure,  by  showing  that 
Attucks  and  his  comrades  were  “rioters”  and  “rebels.” 
The  Massachusetts  Historical  Society  petitioned  Governor 
Ames  to  refuse  his  sanction  to  the  bill,  and  made  a bitter 
attack  on  the  memory  of  the  Be  volutionary  martyrs. 
O’Beilly,  true  to  his  democratic  instincts,  ranged  himself 


306 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


on  the  side  of  those  who  desired  to  honor  the  colored  pa- 
triot and  his  humble  fellows,  and  with  voice  and  pen  de- 
fended the  cause  until  it  was  carried  to  a successful  issue. 
His  great  poem,  “ Crispus  Attucks,”  was  written  in  the 
following  year,  on  the  occasion  of  the  dedication  of  the 
monument. 

On  the  21st  of  June,  the  British  Americans  of  Boston 
celebrated  the  Queen’s  Jubilee  by  a banquet  in  the  cradle 
of  the  American  Revolution,  Faneuil  Hall.  On  the  pre- 
ceding evening  an  indignation  meeting  of  citizens,  opposed 
to  this  desecration,  assembled  in  the  same  building,  and 
passed  resolutions  of  protest  against  the  celebration,  in 
Faneuil  Hall,  “of  a reign  of  tyranny  and  crime.”  Ad- 
dresses were  made  by  Mr.  E.  M.  Chamberlain,  Rev.  P.  A. 
McKenna,  Mr.  Philip  J.  Doherty,  and  others.  As  he  says 
in  his  own  report  of  the  meeting  : 

Mr.  O’Reilly  had  attended  the  meeting  without  thought  of  taking 
part.  In  the  rush  up-stairs,  when  the  doors  were  opened,  he  went  with 
the  stream  ; and  almost  before  he  could  take  breath  he  was  rushed  for- 
ward till  he  found  himself  presiding  over  the  meeting,  with  the  hall 
quivering  with  excitement  and  cheers,  the  air  filled  with  waving  hats 
and  handkerchiefs.  When  order  was  restored,  he  said  : 

Fellow-Citizens  : I did  not  come  here  to-night  to  make  a speech. 
I came  here  as  a citizen  to  listen  to  men,  speaking  in  a protest  that  I 
wished  to  keep  out  of,  because  I know  there  are  men  small  enough  and 
mean  enough  to  say  that  I could  only  speak  in  that  protest  from  the 
obvious  motive  of  being  an  Irishman. 

I stand  here  now  in  a desecrated  Faneuil  Hall,  in  a hall  from  which 
we  were  barred  out  until  the  dread  of  public  indignation  made  them 
open  the  doors, — in  a hall  which  those  fellow-citizens  outside  (referring 
to  the  out-door  meeting  still  in  progress)  repudiate  and  refuse  to  enter. 
There  is  even  a larger  meeting  outside  Faneuil  Hall  to-night  than  there 
is  in,  and  the  men  there  say,  “We  will  never  go  into  Faneuil  Hall 
again.  ” 

I do  not  speak  as  an  Irishman.  I would  as  soon  speak,  God  knows, 
against  the  Czar  of  Russia  if  they  jubilated  in  his  honor,  with  the  pris- 
ons and  mines  of  Siberia  filled  with  Poles;  I would  as  soon  come  here 
in  the  interests  of  negroes,  if  their  rights  were  attacked  in  any  part  of 
the  Union. 

I come,  as  a fellow-citizen  of  yours,  to  protest  against  the  murder  of 
a tradition.  Men  say,  when  their  selfish  interests  are  in  the  market, 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


307 


“ It  will  not  do  Faneuil  Hall  any  harm  to  hold  this  royalist  meeting 
within  its  walls.”  They  say,  “ We  take  no  sentiment  out  by  the  viola' 
tion  of  a tradition.” 

But  I say  those  men  do  not  understand  the  meaning  of  the  awful 
words  “ violation  ” and  “pollution.”  They  would  say  the  same  things 
against  the  violation  and  pollution  of  those  dearest  and  nearest  to 
them — that  no  injury  had  been  done  to  them  by  the  crime.  There  is 
no  crime  so  terrible  as  pollution.  There  is  no  death  so  awful  and  so 
hopeless  as  the  death  of  violated  honor. 

Faneuil  Hall  could  stand  against  the  waves  of  centuries,  could  stand 
against  fire,  could  stand  even  against  folly,  but  it  can  never  stand 
against  the  smoke  of  its  own  violated  altar.  I do  not  wish  to  bar  the 
doors  of  this  hall  against  the  royalists.  We  have  let  them  in  by  the 
order  of  those  whom  we  have  elected  to  represent  us ; and  if  we  open 
the  doors  we  must  bear  the  burden.  On  our  heads  is  the  shame.  Isay 
now,  that  after  the  fumes  of  their  baked  meats  and  after  the  spirits  of 
their  royalist  speeches  intended  to  desecrate  and  destroy  a holy  tradi- 
tion— after  that,  this  is  not  Faneuil  Hall. 

I speak  for  myself  so  honestly  and  faithfully  to  my  own  conscience 
that  I know  I must  represent  the  hearts  of  many  men  in  Boston,  and  I 
say  that  hereafter  we  must  remember  against  this  pile  what  has  been 
done  in  it. 

Well,  let  the  Englishmen  have  Faneuil  Hall.  (Voices:  “No, 
no!”)  I say  you  cannot  prevent  it.  (Voices:  “We  will;  we  can!”) 
No,  no,  the  opposition  is  too  late.  The  opposition  would  be  undignified, 
and  would  be  unworthy  of  us.  The  man  who  would  raise  a finger 
against  an  Englishman  to-morrow  in  Boston,  is  unworthy  to  be  present 
here  to-night.  There  is  a greater  opposition  than  the  opposition  of 
paving-stones  and  bludgeons.  Let  that  be  Lansdowne’s  method.  It  is 
not  ours.  It  isn’t  worthy  of  B.oston.  It  isn’t  worthy  of  the  Faneuil 
Hall  of  the  past. 

But  I say  for  myself — what  I came  to  say — that  after  to-morrow 
night  I trust  we  shall  have  a hall  in  Boston,  into  which  men  may  go 
for  sanctuary,  and  causes  may  go  for  sanctuary ; as  in  the  olden  time, 
a hunted  cause,  or  a weak  man  running  from  the  King’s  oppression, 
running  even  from  the  law  officers,  if  he  could  lay  his  hands  on  the 
sanctuary  he  was  safe  for  a time.  And  all  hunted  causes  in  America 
and  in  the  world  have  come  here.  Kossuth  came  here  from  Hungary, 
O’Connor  came  here  from  Ireland,  Parnell  came  here  from  Ireland. 
Here  is  a hall  made  holy  with  great  men’s  words  and  spirits.  We 
must  have  a hall  unpolluted  by  the  breath  of  Toryism  and  royalty  in 
Boston.  And  I say  this  as  one  humble  man,  who  was  always  proud  to 
come  and  speak  here— that  I will  never  enter  the  walls  of  this  hall 
again.  I will  never,  so  help  me  God,  I will  never — may  my  tongue 


308  JOHN  BOYLE  O'  REILLY. 

cleave  to  my  mouth  if  I ever  speak  a word  for  man  or  cause  in  Faneuil 
Hall  again. 

I do  not  know  that  there  is  any  man  any  more  formally  prepared  to 
speak  to  you  than  I have  been ; but  I would,  in  this  instance  and  in 
this  cause,  call  on  any  Boston  man  to  speak  and  know  that  he  would 
have  to  speak. 

No  single  act  or  utterance  of  O’ Reilly’s  life  was  so 
harshly  criticized  as  this.  He  was  accused  of  seeking  to 
proscribe  free  speech.  He  was  told  sneeringly  that  Boston 
could  survive  such  a catastrophe  as  that  of  O’Reilly  and 
Father  McKenna  declining  to  speak  in  Faneuil  Hall  again  ; 
that  their  refusal  would  not  affect  anybody  half  so  much 
as  it  would  themselves.  He  replied,  “That  is  true;  and 
no  one  knew  it  so  well  as  the  men  who  made  the  reso- 
lution. They  did  not  speak  boastfully,  but  humbly  and 
sorrowfully  ; it  is  their  loss  wholly.  The  gain  of  raising 
the  Union  Jack  in  Faneuil  Hall  is  the  gain  of  flunkeys  and 
Tories  in  Boston,  just  as  it  was  in  the  last  century.” 

It  was  not  necessary  for  him  to  repudiate  the  charge  of 
intolerance.  In  joining  those  who  protested  against  the 
desecration  of  Faneuil  Hall  he  had  acted  as  an  adopted 
citizen,  to  whom  Revolutionary  traditions  were  as  dear  as 
they  should  have  been  to  all  citizens  of  Revolutionary 
descent.  It  would  undoubtedly  have  been  better  if  to  these 
latter  had  been  left  the  whole  duty  of  protesting.  They 
failed  to  look  at  the  matter  in  the  same  light  as  he  did. 
There  is  always  a strong  leaven  of  T jryism  in  the  old  rebel 
town  of  Boston . It  was  shown  in  the  strenuous  opposition  to 
the  erection  of  the  Attucks  monument ; it  was  displayed 
again  by  members  of  the  Bunker  Hill  Monument  Associa- 
tion, who  objected  to  the  erection  of  tablets  commemorating 
the  patriot  soldiers  who  died  in  that  fight ; one  high  officer 
of  the  association  asserting  that  it  would  be  a falsification 
of  history  to  glorify,  from  an  American  standpoint,  an 
event  which  was  really  an  English  victory. 

As  a matter  of  policy  it  would  have  been  wiser  to  have 
wholly  ignored  the  British- American  admirers  of  Queen 
Victoria:  They  were  not  a representative  body  of  any 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


309 


standing.  There  were  among  them  few  English-born  men, 
and  none  of  any  repute  in  the  community.  They  were,  for 
the  most  part,  Canadians  or  Nova  Scotians  of  the  more  igno- 
rant class,  with  a few  Scotchmen,  and  a sprinkling  of  North 
of  Ireland  Orangemen,  all  loyal  subjects  of  Queen  Victoria, 
and  all  equally  ready  to  trade  their  loyalty  at  a moment’s 
notice  when  there  seemed  to  be  a probability  of  political 
gain  thereby.  They  were  reinforced  by  the  usual  crowd  of 
No-Popery  fanatics,  and  their  introduction  into  American 
politics,  a year  or  two  later,  did  not  tend  to  elevate  the 
standard  of  political  virtue.  They  were  given  undue  promi- 
nence by  the  notice  of  an  earnest  patriot  like  O’Reilly. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 


Public  Addresses — Author’s  Beading — The  Irish  Flag  in  New  York— 
“Athletics  and  Manly  Sport  ” Published — His  Cruise  in  the  Dis- 
mal Swamp— Interesting  Letters  to  E.  A.  Moseley — Speech  at  the 
C.  T.  A.  U.  Banquet — Bayard,  Chamberlain,  and  Sack ville- West — 
Presidential  Election — Poem  on  Crispus  Attucks — Death  of  Cor- 
poral Chambers — Speech  for  the  Heroes  of  Hull. 

THERE  was  no  trait  of  O’Reilly’s  character  more  gra- 
cious than  the  genuine  delight  which  he  felt  in  the 
discovery  and  recognition  of  any  talent,  literary  or  artistic, 
in  a young  neophyte  . The  delight  was  manifoldly  enhanced 
when  the  candidate  was  one  of  his  own  race.  He  was  one 
of  the  first  to  recognize  and  the  most  generous  to  encourage 
any  aspirant  for  fame  whose  credentials  bore  the  Gaelic 
stamp.  More  than  half  a score  of  poets  and  litterateurs  in 
Boston  alone,  received  their  first  welcome  plaudits  and  sub- 
stantial rewards  from  the  kindly  editor  of  the  Pilot. 

Toward  the  close  of  1887  John  Donoghue,  a young 
sculptor,  whom  Oscar  Wilde  had  “ discovered”  three  or 
four  years  previously  in  Chicago,  and  who  had  successfully 
exhibited  his  works  in  the  Paris  salon,  took  up  his  resi- 
dence in  Boston.  He  exhibited  three  of  his  works  in 
Boston  in  January,  1888,  “ The  Young  Sopliokles,”  “The 
Hunting  Nymph,”  and  “The  Boxer,”  this  last  being  a 
statue  from  the  life.  His  model  was  the  famous  pugilist, 
John  L.  Sullivan.  O’Reilly  wrote  of  it  as  follows  : 

In  the  exhibition  of  statues  by  John  Donoghue,  now  open  in  Horti- 
cultural Hall,  Boston,  the  tremendous  figure  of  ‘ ‘ The  Boxer  ” stands  in 
the  center,  between  the  wonderful  “Young  Sophokles  ” and  ‘ ‘ The  Hunt- 
ing Nymph.”  These  two  are  noble  sculptures,  varied  in  grace,  beauty 
and  eloquent  action. 

But  the  latest  work  of  John  Donoghue  is  held  by  many— and  cer- 
tainly I am  one  of  them— to  be  the  greatest  of  the  three.  This  is  “ The 

310 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


311 


Boxer,”  which  stands  in  the  central  carmine  arch,  filling  the  whole  hall 
with  its  colossal  strength,  calmness  and  beauty.  A beauty  higher  than 
that  of  the  “ Nymph,”  lovely  as  she  is;  more  potent  than  that  of  “The 
Sophokles,  ” with  all  his  marvelous  grace  and  eloquence.  The  others 
are  imaginatively  great ; this  is  profoundly  so.  Not  merely  because  it 
is  an  ambitious  modernism,  though  this  is  much ; nor  that  it  is  more  or 
less  a portrait  of  a world-renowned  subject,  which  matters  nothing  for 
to-day,  though  it  is  likely  to  become  a real  value  a hundred  or  a 
thousand  years  hence.  But  because  it  is,  as  all  noble  art  must  be,  a 
symbol  that  is  higher  than  a mere  fact,  or  any  thousand  facts.  It  is 
absurd  to  say  that  this  is  a statue  of  Sullivan,  the  boxer,  even  though 
he  posed  for  it.  It  is  a hundred  Sullivans  in  one.  It  is  the  essential 
meaning  and  expression  of  all  such  men  as  Sullivan.  It  is  just  what 
the  great  sculptor  who  conceived  it  calls  it : “ The  Boxer,”  a person- 

ification of  the  power,  will,  grace,  beauty,  brutality,  and  majesty  of  the 
perfect  pugilist  of  modern  times. 

It  is  a statue  which,  once  seen,  can  never  be  forgotten.  It  is  unlike 
all  other  statues  in  the  world — as  unlike  the  glorious  “ David  ” of  An- 
gelo as  the  “ David  ” is  unlike  the  “ Discobulus  ” of  the  Athenian  master. 

One  of  the  wonders  of  the  exhibition  is  that  the  same  man  could 
produce  all  three  statues.  The  ‘ ‘ Nymph  ” no  more  resembles  ‘ ‘ The  Box- 
er ” than  flowing  water  resembles  ironstone.  One  illustrates  the  airy 
lightness  of  grace,  peace,  and  freedom;  the  other  the  heavy  purpose  of 
violence,  force,  and  domination.  But  as  Nature  is  equally  beautiful  in 
every  phase,  so  are  these  antipodal  figures  equal  in  beauty.  The  lily- 
bends  of  the  “ Nymph,”  the  lovely  feet,  hands,  and  throat,  are  not  more 
beautiful  of  line  or  curve  than  the  vast  limbs  of  the  athlete.  Standing 
at  the  farther  end  of  the  hall  this  may  be  clearly  seen.  At  this  distance 
the  fell  purpose  of  mouth  and  level  eye  is  modified,  and  the  dreadful 
threat  of  the  brutal  hands  (the  only  brutal  feature  of  the  statue)  is  con- 
siderably lessened ; but  the  grace  of  the  muscular  torso,  the  band-like 
muscles  of  neck,  shoulders,  and  sides,  and  the  wonderful  modeling  of 
the  legs  are  seen  with  striking  distinctness. 

This  statue  stands  for  nineteenth  century  boxing  for  all  time.  There 
is  no  gloss  of  savagery  in  the  dreadful  hands  and  lowered  frontal ; but 
the  truth  is  grandly  told  of  the  strength,  quality,  and  physical  perfec- 
tion. It  is  the  statue  of  a magnificent  athlete,  worthy  of  ancient 
Athens,  and  distinctly  and  proudly  true  of  modern  Boston. 

Strangers  visiting  Boston  will  ask  for  years  to  come:  “Where  is 
the  statue  of  “The  Boxer  ” ? And  should  the  city  be  fortunate  enough 
and  wise  enough  to  keep  this  great  work  in  immortal  bronze  in  one  of 
our  halls  or  galleries,  it  is  as  sure  to  win  international  renown  as  the 
towering  “Young David”  in  Florence. 

Two  Gladstonian  envoys,  Sir  Thomas  H.  G.  Esmonde 


312 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’ REILLY. 


and  Mr.  John  Stuart,  were  given  a public  reception  at  the 
Hollis  Street  Theater,  Boston,  on  the  evening  of  January 
29.  O’  Reilly,  who  was  one  of-  the  speakers,  said  ( I quote 
the  reported  synopsis  of  his  speech) : 

He  was  glad  of  the  opportunity  of  standing  on  the  platform  with  an 
Englishman  like  Mr.  Stuart,  and  declaring  that  between  Irishmen  and 
such  Englishmen  there  was  no  quarrel.  He  was  reminded  by  Mr. 
Stuart’s  speech  that  there  were  two  Englands,  one  composed  of  a few 
thousand  people  and  the  other  of  tens  of  millions  ; but  the  thousands 
had  all  the  glory  and  the  power  and  the  wealth,  while  the  millions  had 
all  the  darkness,  the  crowding,  the  suffering,  and  the  labor.  He  was  re- 
minded of  the  Jewish  boy  in  England  sixty  years  ago,  who,  when  a Jew 
had  no  rights  or  standing  in  the  nation,  resolved  to  become  a great  and 
powerful  man.  But  the  upper  class,  who  held  all  the  avenues  to  dis- 
tinction, would  have  nothing  to  do  with  him.  They  rejected  him  ; and 
he  retaliated.  He  wrote  a book — a terrible  book  for  them  ; and  he  called 
it  “The  Two  Nations.”  He  painted  in  burning  words  the  luxurious 
dwellers  in  the  castles,  and  the  degraded  and  overworked  slaves  in  the 
outer  night  of  ignorance,  poverty,  and  labor.  The  upper  nation,  the 
castle  dwellers,  the  aristocrats,  who  had  grown  inhuman  with  irrespon- 
sible power,  recognized  at  once  the  danger  of  allowing  this  man  to  be 
their  enemy.  His  book  was  a threat,  and  they  saw  it.  He  was  adopted 
into  their  ranks,  and  he  accepted  their  honors.  Step  by  step  he  com- 
pelled them  to  elevate  him,  a poor  literary  hack-writer,  until'in  the  end 
of  his  days  they  pressed  a jeweled  coronet  on  his  withered  brows, 
raised  him  to  the  supreme  seat  among  their  titled  ranks,  rechristened 
him,  whose  name  was  Benjamin  of  Israel,  by  a lordly  title,  and 
showered  on  him  such  golden  honors  as  his  poor  old  frame  could  hardly 
stand  up  under.  That  was  the  aristocrats’  bribe  to  an  able  man  to  tie  up 
his  tongue  and  his  pen  from  exposing  the  wickedness  of  their  power  and 
defending  the  rights  of  an  outraged  nation. 

An  Author’s  Reading  was  given  in  aid  of  the  Longfellow 
Memorial  Fund  at  Saunder’s  Theater,  Cambridge,  Mass., 
on  Monday  evening,  February  28.  Among  those  who  par- 
ticipated were  Julia  Ward  Howe,  Edward  Everett  Hale, 
Thomas  Wentworth  Higginson,  William  Winter,  Louise 
Chandler  Moulton,  John  Boyle  O’Reilly,  George  Parsons 
Lathrop,  Charles  Follen  Adams,  and  Charlotte  Fiske  Bates. 

O’Reilly’s  appearance  on  the  occasion  was  thus  happily 
referred  to  in  the  Boston  Transcript : 

But  the  man  of  all  present  who  struck  fire  was  Boyle  O’Reilly. 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


313 


Mr.  O’Reilly  seemed  a bit  nervous  as  he  stepped  forward,  eschewing  the 
desk  and  its  preachy  suggestions,  and  he  bent  uneasily  from  side  to  side 
for  a moment,  as  he  read,  apparently  from  written  sheets,  a number  of 
keen  epigrammatic  verses,  full  of  humanity  and  sharp  satire  of  wealthy 
pretense.  It  seemed  rather  a trait  of  audacity  for  him  to  read  “In 
Bohemia,”  too,  before  an  audience  which  must  have  included  very  few 
Bohemians,  and  where  he  could  hardly  expect  a favorable  reception  for 
his  sentiments  regarding  organized  charity  and  statistical  Christianity  ; 
but  how  the  audience  did  cheer  when  he  was  done  ! It  was  perfectly 
plain  that  he  had  accomplished  his  poet’s  mission  in  touching  hearers’ 
hearts  rather  than  their  reason,  or  even  the  reflected  sentiment  that 
comes  from  an  intellectual  conception  as  to  what  sentiment  ought  to  be, 
and  which  often  passes  for  genuine  sentiment  until  somebody  comes 
along  who  was  endowed  at  his  birth,  as  Boyle  O’Reilly  was,  with  the 
art  of  getting  at  the  real  sentiment  of  human  beings.  How  such  a 
thrill  as  he  gave  with  “In  Bohemia”  sweeps  away  artificial  sentiment, 
even  when  it  is  as  cleverly  conceived  as  they  are  able  to  conceive  it  in 
Cambridge. 

Something  of  a tempest  in  a teapot  was  stirred  np  in 
New  York  on  St.  Patrick’s  Day  of  this  year,  when  Mayor 
Abram  Hewitt  refused  to  let  the  Irish  flag  be  floated  over 
City  Hall,  a courtesy  which  had  been  practiced  for  over 
ninety  years.  Mr.  Hewitt  had  decorated  the  same  building 
with  bunting  on  the  occasion  of  Queen  Victoria’s  jubilee,  as 
he  had  shown  himself  a pronounced  Anglomaniac  on  many 
other  occasions.  The  Irish- Americans,  of  course,  did  not 
claim  as  a right  that  which  they  had  so  long  enjoyed  as  a 
courtesy.  Mr.  Hewitt’s  animus  was  unmistakable  ; but 
when  a branch  of  the  Irish  National  League  in  Dublin, 
Ireland,  passed  a resolution  condemning  the  conduct  of  the 
New  York  Mayor,  O’Reilly  pronounced  their  action  “a 
folly  and  an  impertinence,  also.”  He  said  : 

The  city  of  Dublin,  whether  represented  by  British  or  Irish  senti- 
ment, commits  an  intolerable  error  when  it  assumes  to  lecture  the  city 
of  New  York  or  any  other  American  city  on  its  relation  to  the  Irish 
people  or  flag.  The  first  to  resent  such  interference  are  Irish- Ameri- 
cans, who  are  quite  able  to  speak  for  themselves. 

Mayor  Hewitt,  sneaking  into  the  office  of  the  British  Minister  at 
Washington  to  explain  why  he  had  moved  an  anti-British  resolution 
in  Congress,  proved  himself  to  be  an  unreliable  and  unfriendly  man, 
to  be  distrusted  particularly  by  Irish- Americans. 


314 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 

But  when  a resolution  is  passed  in  Ireland  demanding  that  the 
Mayor  of  New  York  should  hoist  the  Irish  flag  on  the  City  Hall,  as  a 
right  of  “the  Irish  race  throughout  the  world,”  we  take  sides  with 
Mayor  Hewitt  ; and  we  advise  the  Dublin  branch  of  the  National 
League  that  it  has  made  a grave  mistake  that  ought  to  be  amended ; 
and  that  the  person  who  drafted  the  above  resolution  ought  not  to  be 
trusted  with  the  wording  of  its  withdrawal. 

Mr.  Hewitt  failed  of  re-election,  not  because  the  Dublin 
National  League  had  disapproved  of  his  conduct,  but  be- 
cause sensible  Americans  regarded  him  as  a fidgety  nui- 
sance. 

“In  the  month  of  May,  1888,  two  sunburned  white 
men,  in  cedar  canoes,  turned  at  right  angles  from  the 
broad  waters  of  the  Dismal  Swamp  Canal,  and  entered  the 
dark  and  narrow  channel,  called  the  Feeder,  that  pierces 
the  very  heart  of  the  swamp.” 

The  two  sunburned  white  men,  thus  mentioned  by  one 
of  them,  were  Edward  A.  Moseley  and  John  Boyle  O’  Reilly. 
It  was  their  last  canoeing  trip  together,  and  is  pictur- 
esquely chronicled  by  O’ Reilly’s  pen  and  Moseley’s  camera 
in  the  former’s  volume  on  “Athletics  and  Manly  Sport,” 
published  in  the  same  year  by  Ticknor  & Co.,  Boston,  and 
republished  in  a second  edition,  two  years  later,  by  the 
Pilot  Publishing  Co.  It  has  a frontispiece  portrait  of 
Donoghue’s  statue,  “The  Boxer,”  and  is  dedicated  : 

TO  THOSE  WHO  BELIEVE  THAT  A LOVE  FOR 
INNOCENT  SPORT,  PLAYFUL  EXERCISE, 

AND  ENJOYMENT  OF  NATURE, 

IS  A BLESSING  INTENDED  NOT  ONLY  FOR 
THE  YEARS  OF  BOYHOOD,  BUT  FOR 
THE  WHOLE  LIFE  OF  A MAN. 

In  his  introduction,  recognizing  the  prejudice  which 
exists  against  boxing,  he  quoted  Bunyan’s  lines  : 

Some  said,  John,  print  it  ; others  said,  Not  so  , 

Some  said,  It  might  do  good  ; others  said,  No. 

The  book  is  a cyclopaedia  of  the  history  and  evolution 
of  pugilism,  defending  the  exercise  for  its  value  as  a 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


315 


developer  of  health  and  courage,  and  not  extenuating  the 
brutality,  which  too  often  accompanies  the  so-called 
“ prize-fight.”  His  directions  concerning  health  and  ex- 
ercise have  the  advantage  of  being  drawn  from  personal 
experience,  for  he  was  an  “ all-round”  athlete,  a fine 
boxer,  a skilled  and  graceful  fencer,  and  all  but  an  amphib- 
ian in  the  water.  Three  short  rules  may  be  quoted  at 
random,  for  their  common  sense  quality  : 


The  best  exercise  for  a man,  training  for  a boxing-match,  is  boxing  ; 
the  next  best  is  running. 

The  best  exercise  for  a crew,  training  for  a rowing-race,  is  rowing  ; 
the  next  best  is  running. 

The  best  exercise  for  a man,  training  for  a swimming-match,  is  swim- 
ming ; the  next  best  is  running. 

And  so  with  other  contests  ; running  is  not  only  second  best,  but  is 
absolutely  necessary  in  each,  for  running  excels  all  exercises  for  devel- 
oping “ the  wind.” 

Seventy  pages  of  the  book  are  devoted  to  a well- written 
and  copiously  illustrated  article  on  ‘ ‘ Ancient  Irish  Athletic 
Games,  Exercises,  and  Weapons.”  But  the  part  which 
will  most  interest  the  general  reader  is  that,  consisting  of 
over  two  hundred  pages,  in  which  he  narrates  his  canoeing 
trips  on  the  Connecticut,  the  Susquehanna,  the  Delaware, 
and  the  Dismal  Swamp.  The  shortsighted  greed  of  man 
has  prevented  the  reclamation  of  the  Swamp.  O’Reilly 
was  a firm  believer  in  the  great  resources  of  that  region, 
now  given  over  to  the  wild  beast  and  the  moccasin  snake. 
He  took  pains  on  his  return  to  makes  its  possibilities 
known  to  the  world,  and  cherished  hopes  of  living  to  see 
this  rich,  neglected  Virginia  tract  converted  into  a beauti- 
ful, fertile,  and  healthful  region. 

His  Dismal  Swamp  cruise  was  the  last  of  the  delightful 
outings  that  he  was  ever  to  enjoy.  His  companion  and 
dear  friend,  Mr.  Edward  A.  Moseley,  of  Washington,  has 
kindly  supplied  me  with  some  characteristic  letters,  writ- 
ten at  this  period,  from  which  I take  these  interesting 
specimens  : 


316 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’ REILLY. 


The  “ Pilot,”  Boston,  March  1,  1888 

Dear  Ned‘: 

Get  as  much  information  as  you  can  about  the  Swamp.  I am 
with  you . Always, 

Boyle  O’Reilly. 


April  5,  1888. 

Dear  Ned  : 

Please  let  me  know — are  you  going  with  me  to  the  Dismal  Swamp 
or  not  ? I must  make  arrangements.  I wrote  you  two  weeks  ago. 
Perhaps  my  letter  has  miscarried.  Write,  like  a good  old  boy. 

Faithfully, 

J.  B.  O’R. 


April  10,  1888. 

Dear  Ned : 

I may  have  to  ask  you  to  start  a week  before  the  7th  of  May  ; but  I 
am  trying  to  arrange  it  as  I wrote  last  week.  I have  learned  all  about 
the  Swamp.  It  is  absolutely  free  from  malaria.  The  water  is  wonder- 
fully pure.  Gen.  Butler  tells  me  it  is  the  sweetest  water  in  the  country. 
We  shall  probably  have  to  take  a negro  lad,  who  knows  the  Swamp, 
with  us. 

Be  sure  and  have  the  camera  in  fine  order,  and  lay  in  a complete 
stock  of  dry  plates.  The  expense,  dear  Ned,  must  be  more  fairly 
divided  this  time.  If  you  will  send  me  word  what  plates  to  get,  I will 
bring  with  me  a hundred  or  more  of  the  right  kind.  Don’t  delay ; just 
write  me  the  things  to  buy. 

I will  bring  my  gun  ; you  get  one  also.  Do  you  want  any  paddles, 
etc.  ? Find  out  at  Norfolk,  as  early  as  you  can,  whether  or  not  we  can 
camp  in  the  Swamp. 

Good-by,  dear  old  Mr.  McGarvey.* 

Affectionately, 

J.  B.  O’R. 

We  will  have  a glorious  time. 


April  27,  1888. 

Dear  Ned  : 

I shall  start  on  Saturday,  May  5,  arriving  in  Norfolk  on  Monday, 
7th.  I have  got  the  plates  (Seeds  5x8 — four  dozen).  I shall  bring  your 
cushion  along.  Be  sure  and  get  long  rubber  boots,  and  better  bring  a 
gun — a light  rifle  if  you  can  get  it,  as  there  are  deer  in  the  Swamp. 

We  want  a reliable  negro  who  knows  the  whole  Swamp, — with  a 


* Evidently  a playful  nickname  of  Mr.  Moseley. 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


817 


boat.  If  you  are  down  there  in  time,  look  out  for  this  fellow.  Per- 
haps it  would  be  well  to  go  to  the  Swamp  to  get  him.  It  is  only  an 
hour’s  ride  there  from  Norfolk. 

We  will  have  a memorable  time,  old  man. 

Bring  lots  of  good  quinine.  I will  bring  some  also. 

Faithfully, 


Boyle. 


June  6,  1888. 

Dear  Ned  : 

If  there  be  a map  of  the  Dismal  Swamp  anywhere  in  Washington, 
please  get  it  for  our  article.  We  need  it  badly . 

Send  me  any  other  notes  you  may  think  of. 

Send  for  the  map  at  once.  It  must  be  engraved  here. 

Faithfully, 


J.  B.  O’R. 


June  27,  1888. 

Dear  Ned  : 

....  Please  see  King  and  thank  him  for  the  antlers  and  maps 
(which  I shall  return  safely  in  a week  or  two).  Also  ask  him  if  he 
sent  or  instructed  any  one  to  send  me  a keg  of  wine.  A keg  of 
delicious  wine  came  to  me  last  week — no  letter,  no  bill.  I want  to 
pay  for  it. 

My  article  (four  pages  of  Herald  and  Sun)  will  appear  on  Sunday, 
July  1 — copious  illustrations.  I shall  reproduce  all  the  good  plates  in 
my  book  directly  from  the  negatives.  Send  me  everything  you  can 
about  the  Swamp. 

My  little  Blanid  has  been  very  ill,  dying  almost,  for  two  weeks.  I 
could  not  write.  I was  up  day  and  night.  She  is  better  now,  thank 
God. 

My  love  to  you,  dear  Ned. 

Faithfully, 

Boyle  O’Reilly. 


He  enjoyed  his  trip  through  the  Swamp  amazingly, 
and  was  especially  interested  in  its  quaint  human  inhabi- 
tants, nearly  all  fugitive  slaves  or  their  descendants. 

“His  wonderful  ability  to  place  himself  en  rapport 
with  all  classes  of  men,  and  adapt  himself  to  the  capacity 
of  others  to  understand  him,”  writes  his  companion,  Mr. 
Moseley,  “ was  well  illustrated  in  our  Dismal  Swamp  trip, 
when  the  half-civilized  blacks  of  that  lonely  region,  many 
of  whom  had  never  been  outside  the  dark  recesses  of  the 


318 


JOHN  BOYLE  O'REILLY. 


Swamp, — poor  unfortunates,  whose  mentality  was  about  as 
low  as  it  is  possible  to  imagine  in  a human  being, — used  to 
gather  around  our  camp  fire,  and  listen  with  bated  breath 
while  Boyle  related  to  them,  as  only  he  could,  the  story  of 
the  wrongs  and  sufferings  of  Ireland,  and  told  of  the  eight 
hundred  years  of  oppression  which  yet  had  failed  to  de- 
stroy the  Irish  nationality  and  the  Irish  spirit  and  tradi- 
tions ; and  so  well  did  he  present  his  theme,  and  so  per- 
fectly did  he  measure  the  language  with  which  he  clothed 
his  eloquence  by  the  rude  intellectual  standard  of  his  audi- 
ence, that  he  held  them  speechless  and  amazed  at  what  was 
to  them  a wonderful  romance.” 

The  following  clever  parody  on  Moore’s  “Lake  of  the 
Dismal  Swamp  ’ ’ went  the  rounds  of  the  press  apropos  of 
O’Reilly’s  cruise : 

He’s  off  for  a place  rather  cold  and  damp 
For  a soul  so  warm  to  woo  ; 

He  goes  to  explore  the  Dismal  Swamp, 

So  weirdly  sung  by  a poet-tramp 
When  the  century  was  new . 

And  some  sonorous  song  we  soon  may  hear, 

Or  malarial  lines  may  see, 

For  the  Miasmatic  Muse  may  bear 

Some  offspring  meet  for  the  laurel’s  wear, 

Though  derived  from  the  cypress  tree. 

So  the  brakes  among  ! Though  the  way  is  long 
And  no  primrose  path  it  be  ; 

And  what  is  there  wrong  in  a plaintive  song 

For  the  juice  of  the  grateful  scuppernong 
And  the  juniper  jamboree  ? 

No  rill  Heliconian  to  inspirate, 

Nor  fount  of  fair  Castaly ; 

And  the  exhalations  that  exhalate 

Are  not  the  sort  that  invigorate 
Or  animate  Poesie. 

And  yet  to  the  fancy  that  sways  supreme 
These  poetic,  aesthetic  souls 


319 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 

Here  might  haply  seem  Scamander’s  stream, 

Or  in  rhapsodic  dream  where  the  waveless  gleam 
And  my  native  Simois  rolls. 

O Pilot ! there  is  a peril  dread 
Where  the  ignis  fatuus  lured, 

And  the  wolf  unfed  and  the  copperhead 
With  the  poisonous  growth  hung  over  head 
Like  a Damocletian  sword  ! 

But  bon  Voyage , and  no  longer  enlarge 
On  the  terrors  above  defined. 

We’ll  rout  the  band  with  Prospero’s  wand 
And  banish  them  (in  our  mind) ; 

With  carbolic  hand  disinfect  the  land 
Nor  leave  a germ  behind. 

So  in  birchen  boat,  a bark  of  his  own, 

On  that  lake  of  somber  hue, 

Or  on  life’s  broad  stream,  wherever  blown, 

J.  B.  is  quite  able — so  lave  him  alone — 

To  paddle  his  own  canoe. 

H.  Moro. 

He  received  a more  dainty  compliment  from  far-away 
South  America,  about  the  same  time.  The  charming  love 
poem  “Jacqueminots,”  has  been  set  to  music  by  two  or 
three  American  composers.  It  had  the  honor  of  transla- 
tion into  the  Spanish  language  by  a Buenos  Ayres  author, 
who  introduced  it  under  the  title  “Yankee  Poetry”  as 
follows : 

A North-American  resident  in  Buenos  Ayres  has  translated  into 
Spanish  verse  a poetical  composition  already  published  in  one  of  our 
dailies,  but  accredited  to  one  of  the  most  popular  weekly  newspapers  in 
the  United  States,  the  Pilot  of  Boston.  The  circumstance  of  a stranger’s 
so  easily  overcoming  the  great  difficulties  of  rendering  this  English 
poem,  beautifully  and  musically,  into  the  Spanish  idiom,  united  to  the 
great  merit  of  the  original  composition,  whose  author  holds  high  rank 
in  the  literary  world  of  North  America,  induces  us  to  transfer  it  to  our 
columns  : 

Poeias  Yankee. — Un  norte-americano  residente  en  Buenos  Aires 
ha  traducido  en  verso  espanol  una  composicion  poetica  publicada  hace 


320 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


poco  por  uno  de  los  diarios  mas  acreditados  y populares  de  los  Estados 
Unidos:  the  Pilot  de  Boston. 

La  circumstancia  de  haber  sido  vertido  a nuestro  idioma  por  un 
extranjero,  venciende  dificultades  que  facilmente  se  adivinan,  unida  al 
merito  relativo  de  la  composicion,  que  lleva  al  pie  un  nombre  venta- 
josamente  conocido  en  el  mundo  literario  norte-americano,  nos  induce 
a darle  un  lugar  en  nuestras  columnas. 

Hela  aqui : 

JACQUEMINOTS. 

[Traduccion  del  Ingles,  por  E.  R.] 

Yo  no  quiero,  mi  vida,  con  palabras 
Manifestarle  mi  ansiedad  de  amores ; 

Pero  deja  que  expresen  lo  que  siento, 

Con  lenguaje  de  aromas,  esas  flores. 

Que  sus  hojas  purpureas  te  revelen 
De  mis  deseos  el  prof  undo  arcano; 

Que  rueguen  por  sonrisas  y por  besos 
Cual  los  campos  por  lluvia  en  el  verano. 

Ah ! mi  querida,  que  tu  faz  trasluzca 
El  brillo  de  una  tierna  confesion ; 

Da  a mis  rosassiquiera  una  esperanza, 

La  esperanza  que  anhela  el  corazon. 

Llevalas  a tu  seno,  mi  querida, 

Despues  que  aspires  su  fragante  olor ; 

Bebe  en  sue  caliz  mi  pasion  ardiente, 

Su  aroma  es  el  perfume  de  mi  amor. 

Oh ! mis  rosas  decidia,  supplicantes, 

Con  lenguaje  de  aromas,  sin  alino, 

Cuantos  son  los  suspiros  y las  ansias 
De  un  corazon  sediento  de  carino. 

Decidle,  rosas,  que  en  mi  picho  vense 
Los  lindos  rasgos  de  su  rostro  impresos, 

Que  mis  ojos  la  buscan,  y mis  labios 
Estan  pidiendo  sus  amantes  besos. 

The  eighteenth  annual  convention  of  the  Catholic  Total 
Abstinence  Union  in  America  was  held  in  Tremont  Tem- 
ple, Boston,  on  Wednesday  and  Thursday,  August  1 and 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


321 


2.  Addresses  were  delivered  by  Rev.  Father  Thomas  J. 
Conaty,  of  Worcester,  Right  Rev.  Bishop  Keane,  rector  of 
the  American  Catholic  University,  and  other  great  temper- 
ance advocates.  A banquet  was  given  to  the  delegates  by 
the  Boston  Arch-Diocesan  Union,  at  the  Waverly  House, 
Charlestown,  on  the  last  evening  of  the  convention.  John 
Boyle  O’  Reilly  responded  for  the  press  as  follows  : 

I have  learned  that  it  does  not  need  wine  to  give  eloquence  to  your 
orators.  I was  to  respond  to  the  Catholic  Total  Abstinence  press  of 
America,  I regret  that  I was  limited  to  that.  There  is  no  press  in 
America  to-day  that  is  not  wholly  yours.  There  is  no  American, 
Catholic  or  Protestant,  who  has  any  adverse  criticism  to  offer  to  your 
convention.  Before  you,  prejudice  of  class  and  party  drops  its  arms; 
even  the  man  of  the  three  It’s  could  not  find  fault  with  your  rum  and 
Romanism.  And  your  only  “ rebellion  ” is  against  want  and  woe  and 
wickedness.  Your  practices  and  parades  give  special  pride  to  Catholic 
Americans.  You  speak  the  very  essence  of  Catholic  faith  and  Ameri- 
can patriotism  in  your  zeal  without  coercion,  your  example  without 
denunciation.  You  appeal  to  the  goodness  and  not  to  the  shrewdness 
or  tyranny  that  is  in  men.  One  of  the  speakers  at  the  convention — I 
think  it  was  my  wise  and  honored  friend  Fr.  Wm.  Byrne,  the  Vicar- 
General  of  Boston — truly  said  that  you  ought  not  to  count  or  measure 
your  influence  by  your  organized  numbers.  He  was  right.  As  you 
delegates  are  to  your  organization,  so  is  your  organization  to  its  moral 
example  and  influence. 

To  Americans  of  Irish  extraction,  particularly,  your  organization  is  a 
source  of  pride  and  pleasure,  for  those  who  are  of  Irish  extraction  or 
birth,  and  who  are  American  citizens,  know  that  your  mission  is  neces- 
sarily largely  directed  to  their  people.  Yet  they  come  from  no  dissi- 
pated or  immoral  stock.  They  come  from  a country  whose  morals 
compare  favorably  with  those  of  any  country  in  the  world. 

Why  it  is  that  the  slur  of  intemperance  should  be  so  constantly  cast 
on  the  expatriated  or  emigrated  Irish  is  a question  of  deep  interest  to 
men  outside  of  your  body.  In  the  times  of  freedom,  in  their  own 
country,  they  were  never  a drunken  people.  No  missionary  to  Ireland 
has  reported  them  as  being  a drunken  or  intemperate  people,  until 
comparatively  recent  times.  And  yet,  because  of  their  hospitable  and 
warm-hearted  natures,  they  may  have  been  open  to  that  charge. 

But  in  the  days  of  their  freedom,  when  they  made  their  mead,  ale, 
and  whisky,  the  Irish  people  were  a sober  people.  When  the  Govern- 
ment took  away  from  the  people,  and  placed  in  the  hands  of  distillers, 
the  manufacture  of  these  drinks,  and  imposed  licenses  upon  it,  the 


322 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


people  got  their  drinks  only  when  they  went  to  the  market,  and  at 
those  times  they  took  too  much  liquor.  That  was  the  real  beginning  of 
intemperance  in  Ireland.  Intemperance  went  into  Ireland  with  foreign 
rule  and  prohibition.  The  law  of  man  sent  intemperance  among  the 
Irish,  and  you  are  trying  to  take  it  out  of  them  by  a higher  law  than 
that  of  man — by  the  law  of  God. 

Again,  when  they  came  to  this  country  with  all  their  home  ties 
broken,  with  no  money  in  many  instances,  strangers  in  uncongenial 
communities,  the  desire  of  the  Irish  for  fraternity,  for  meeting  their 
kindred  and  friends  when  they  could,  furnished  the  great  opportunity 
for  the  liquor  seller ; his  saloon  became  the  accustomed  place  of  meet- 
ing. You  will  find  (and  I say  it  as  an  outsider  who  has  given  the  subject 
some  consideration)  that  the  saloon-keeper  among  the  Irish  people  in 
this  country  is  nearly  always  an  emigrant.  There  are  very  few  Irish- 
Americans  born  in  this  country  who  have  gone  into  the  liquor  trade. 
The  people  coming  here  from  Ireland  were  unskilled.  The  thousands 
or  tens  of  thousand  industries  which  enter  into  the  life  of  a prosperous 
nation  were  taken  away  from  Ireland.  The  ship-building,  the  mining, 
the  iron  works,  the  carriage-building,  the  potteries,  the  mills,  and  the 
weaving,  all  those  industries  that  Ireland  had  even  up  to  one  hundred 
years  ago,  were  swept  away  and  the  manual  skill  of  the  people  was 
deliberately  stolen  from  them.  They  were  left  with  no  opportunities 
whatever  of  acquiring  knowledge  other  than  that  which  pertained  to 
the  servile  work  of  tilling  the  land,  while  the  land  was  held  by 
strangers.  In  Ireland  a man  with  seven  sons  had  seven  farm  laborers 
in  his  house ; in  Boston,  for  instance,  the  same  man  would  have  seven 
sons  at  useful  and  perhaps  different  occupations.  That  is  the  reason 
why  many  of  the  men  coming  from  Ireland,  notwithstanding  they 
were  provident,  thrifty  and  ambitious,  were  tempted  to  go  into  the 
liquor  business  as  a means  of  acquiring  money  rapidly.  That  is  one  of 
the  considerations  which  I think  ought  to  be  remembered  by  your  or- 
ganization as  a reason  for  dealing  leniently  with  men  in  that  traffic. 
But  I believe  that  of  all  the  classes  affected  by  it,  the  first  to  relieve 
itself  from  the  influence  of  the  saloon  is  going  to  be  the  Irish- American 
class,  because  of  these  two  facts  : That  we  are  not  drunkards ; that  we 
come  from  no  degraded  or  immoral  stock ; and  because  we  are  learning 
all  the  manifold  industries  and  means  of  making  an  honorable  living 
which  are  open  to  us  in  our  American  business  centers. 

Secretary  Bayard’s  novel  attempt  to  settle  the  fisheries 
disputes  between  the  United  States  and  England,  on  the 
basis  of  giving  the  latter  country  all  that  she  asked  and  some- 
thing more,  resulted  in  the  appointment  of  a commission 
by  the  +wo  governments.  The  commissioner  selected  to 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


323 


represent  the  British  Government  was  Joseph  Chamberlain, 
M.P.  The  reference  to  arbitration  was  made  against  the 
wishes  of  Congress,  and  of  the  people  whose  interests  were 
most  immediately  concerned,  the  American  fishermen. 
These  facts  alone  would  have  been  sufficient  to  endanger  the 
success  of  the  mission ; the  appointment  of  such  a man  as 
Chamberlain  insured  its  failure.  O’Reilly  predicted: 
“ When  the  farce  is  over,  no  doubt  the  Senate  will  quietly 
shelve  Mr.  Bayard’s  new  treaty  and  that  will  be  the  end  of 
the  matter  until  the  humiliating  experiences  of  1886  and 
1887  are  repeated  in  the  season  of  1888.  After  which  the 
deluge,  and  a presidential  election.” 

Whatever  hope  there  might  have  been  for  the  treaty  was 
dispelled  by  Mr.  Chamberlain  himself,  who,  on  the  eve  of 
his  departure  for  the  field  of  his  mission,  made  a flippant 
and  foolish  speech,  in  which  he  insulted  Irish-Americans 
and  sneered  at  the  people  of  Canada,  whose  interests  he  was 
supposed  to  champion.  “ A foreign  commissioner,”  wrote 
O’Reilly,  “ who  begins  by  wantonly  offending  twenty  mill- 
ions of  sensitive,  active  Americans,  may  be  let  alone  to  work 
his  own  cure.”  To  complete  the  offensiveness  of  his  con- 
duct, the  commissioner  was  escorted  by  a bodyguard  of 
detectives  on  landing  in  the  United  States,  professing  to  fear 
personal  violence  from  the  Irish-Americans.  “Mr.  Cham- 
berlain need  have  no  fear  for  his  life,”  said  O’Reilly  ; “ it 
is  only  the  public  or  spiritual  part  of  Mr.  Chamberlain  that 
excites  aversion,  and  that  he  is  surely  killing  himself. 
The  bodily  part  can  live  on,  carrying  the  suicidal  corpse  of 
his  reputation  as  an  example  and  a warning  to  other 
‘radical  statesmen.’  ” Mr.  Chamberlain  was  not  killed,  he 
was  not  even  insulted.  His  advent  would  have  been  of  very 
little  importance,  one  way  or  another,  save  for  the  fact  that 
it  contributed  materially  to  the  killing  of  something  infin- 
itely more  valuable  than  himself,  a Democratic  Administra- 
tion. 

In  the  heat  and  fury  of  the  national  election,  an  inci- 
dent occurred  which  came  very  near  turning  the  scales  in 
favor  of  President  Cleveland’s  re-election.  The  British 


324 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


Minister  to  Washington,  Lord  Sackville-West,  received  in 
September,  from  Pomona,  Cal.,  a letter  signed  “ Charles  F. 
Murchison,”  which  purported  to  be  the  inquiry  of  a 
naturalized  British-American,  asking  the  representative  of 
the  Government  which  he,  the  writer,  had  sworn  to  abjure, 
for  instruction  as  to  how  he  should  vote  in  the  pending  elec- 
tion. The  letter  was  a forgery,  but  it  achieved  its  end  by 
entrapping  the  stupid  Minister  into  replying  as  follows : 

Beverly,  Mass.,  September  13,  1888. 

Sir: 

I am  in  receipt  of  your  letter  of  the  4th  inst.  and  beg  to  say  that  I 
fully  appreciate  the  difficulty  in  which  you  find  yourself  in  casting 
your  vote.  You  are  probably  aware  that  any  political  party  which 
openly  favored  the  mother  country  at  the  present  moment  would  lose 
popularity,  and  that  the  party  in  power  is  fully  aware  of  this  fact. 
The  party,  however,  is,  I believe,  still  desirous  of  maintaining  friendly 
relations  with  Great  Britain,  and  is  still  as  desirous  of  settling  all  ques- 
tions with  Canada  which  have  been  unfortunately  reopened  since  the 
rejection  of  the  Treaty  by  the  Republican  majority  in  the  Senate  and  by 
the  President’s  message  to  which  you  allude.  All  allowances  must, 
therefore,  be  made  for  the  political  situation  as  regards  the  Presidential 
election  thus  created.  It  is,  however,  impossible  to  predict  the  course 
which  President  Cleveland  may  pursue  in  the  matter  of  retaliation 
should  he  be  elected,  but  there  is  every  reason  to  believe  that,  while 
upholding  the  position  he  has  taken,  he  will  manifest  a spirit  of  con- 
ciliation in  dealing  with  the  question  involved  in  his  message.  I in- 
close an  article  from  the  New  York  Times  of  August  22,  and  remain 
Yours  faithfully, 

L.  S.  Sackville-West. 

So  astounding  a breach  of  diplomatic  courtesy  could  not 
be  passed  over.  President  Cleveland  recognized  at  once 
the  fatal  importance  of  such  an  indorsement  from  the 
national  enemy  of  America,  and  demanded  the  immediate 
recall  of  the  indiscreet  envoy.  As  the  British  Government 
delayed  and  temporized,  Secretary  Bayard,  by  direction 
of  the  President,  wrote  to  Minister  West  notifying  him : 

Your  present  official  situation  near  this  Government  is  no  longer 
acceptable,  and  would  consequently  be  detrimental  to  the  good  relations 
between  the  two  powers.  I have  the  further  honor,  by  the  direction  of 
the  President,  to  inclose  you  a letter  .of  safe  conduct  through  the  Terri- 
tories of  the  United  States. 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES.  325 

The  British  lion  roared.  Lord  Salisbury  lost  his  temper 
and  denounced  the  Administration  which  had  so  promptly 
“ flipped  out  ’ ’ a British  Minister.  The  Tory  papers  com- 
mented on  the  “ boorish  rudeness  of  the  American  Govern- 
ment,” the  blame  of  which  they  laid  on  the  Irish- Ameri- 
cans, especially  naming  two,  O’  Reilly  and  Collins. 

The  London  Daily  Chronicle  clamored  for  war,  say- 
ing: 

If  President  Cleveland  is  of  opinion  that  it  consorts  with  his 
dignified  position  to  abase  himself  and  his  country  before  the  O’Reillys, 
Collinses,  and  other  Irish  demagogues,  and  to  reserve  his  rudeness  for 
accredited  diplomatists  of  friendly  powers,  it  is  not  British  business  to 
attempt  his  conversion,  but  it  is  our  duty  to  resent  the  insult  put  upon 
us  as  promptly  as  it  was  offered. 

The  u man  O’Reilly,”  of  whom  Sir  William  Vernon 
Harcourt  had  never  heard  four  years  before,  became  very 
well  known  to  the  British  Government  through  this  inci- 
dent. He  became  even  better  known  when  the  Extradition 
Treaty,  carefully  amended  so  as  to  cover  the  cases  of  politi- 
cal offenders  like  himself,  was  kicked  out  of  the  United 
States  Senate. 

O’  Reilly  had  supported  the  candidacy  of  Cleveland,  but 
the  President,  handicapped  by  the  unpopularity  of  some 
of  his  cabinet  and  diplomatic  appointees,  was  defeated  by 
a small  majority. 

The  monument  to  Crispus  Attucks  was  unveiled  on 
Wednesday,  November  14,  dedicatory  services  being  held 
in  Faneuil  Hall.  Rev.  A.  * Chamberlain  read  O’Reilly’s 
poem,  entitled,  “ Crispus  Attucks,  Negro  Patriot — Killed 
in  Boston,  March  5,  1770,”  with  its  scathing  indictment  of 
the  Tory : 

Patrician,  aristocrat,  Tory — whatever  his  age  or  name, 

To  the  people’s  rights  and  liberties,  a traitor  ever  the  same. 

The  natural  crowd  is  a mob  to  him,  their  prayer  a vulgar 
rhyme ; 

The  free  man’s  speech  is  sedition,  and  the  patriot’s  deed  a crime ; 

Whatever  the  race,  the  law,  the  land, — whatever  the  time  or 
throne, — 

The  Tory  is  always  a traitor  to  every  class  but  his  own. 


326 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


The  poem  elicited  a characteristic  letter  from  a patriot 
of  rugged  integrity,  who  wastes  no  compliments.  Patrick 
Ford,  editor  of  the  Irish  World , wrote  him  on  December 
8,  1888  : 

The  poem  is  worthy  of  a noble  mind  and  a pen  of  fire.  As  an  Irish- 
man and  an  American,  I am  proud  of  you. 

Rev.  J.  R.  Slattery,  superior  of  negro  missions  in  the 
South,  wrote  : 

‘ ‘ Crispus  Attucks  ” got  me  up  to  white  heat : it  will  tell.  ‘ ‘ By  the  tea 
that  is  brewing  still,”  is  unrivaled.  For  years  it  has  been  my  convic- 
tion that  the  South  will  e.ventually  be  ruled  by  the  negroes,  and  for  the 
reasons  given  by  Mr.  O’Reilly. 

‘ ‘ There  is  never  a legal  sin  but  grows  to  the  law’s  disaster  ; 

The  master  shall  drop  the  whip,  and  the  slave  shall  enslave  the 
master.” 

We  all  feel  very  grateful  to  the  poet  who  thus  in  soul-stirring  song 
seconds  our  efforts,  or  rather  gives  us  an  ideal  to  direct  our  poor  people 
toward. 

At  the  special  request  of  the  colored  citizens  of  Boston, 
O’Reilly  read  the  poem  for  them  on  Tuesday,  December 
18,  at  the  colored  church  in  Charles  Street,  prefacing  it 
with  a short  speech,  in  which  he  said  : 

There  is  no  man  in  the  world  who  would  not  be  proud  of  such  a 
patriotic  introduction  and  reception.  I thought  to-night,  that,  instead 
of  listening  to  the  reading  of  a poem,  you  would  unite  with  your  white 
fellow-citizens  in  sending  word  to  Mississippi  to  prevent  murder.  You 
have  heard  the  white  man’s  story.  To-morrow  we  may  hear  the  other 
side.  We  shall  see  who  it  is  that  is  shot  down  in  the  swamp.  The  colored 
men  have  their  future  in  their  own  hands  ; but  they  have  a harder  task 
before  them  than  they  had  in  1860.  It  is  easier  to  break  political  bonds 
than  the  bonds  of  ignorance  and  prejudice.  The  next  twenty-five 
years  can  bring  many  reforms,  and  by  proper  training  our  colored 
fellow-citizens  may  easily  be  their  own  protectors.  They  must,  above 
all  things,  establish  a brotherhood  of  race.  Make  it  so  strong  that  its 
members  will  be  proud  of  it — proud  of  living  as  colored  Americans, 
and  desirous  of  devoting  their  energy  to  the  advancement  of  their 
people. 

He  had  delivered  a course  of  lectures  in  the  Southwest 
in  the  preceding  month,  and  saw  with  burning  indignation 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


327 


the  social  ostracism  to  which  colored  men  were  subjected  in 
public  places  throughout  various  parts  of  that  section,  and 
came  home  more  than  ever  an  advocate  of  the  oppressed 
black  man. 

Another  delegation  of  Irish  Nationalists  came  to  Amer- 
ica in  October  ; they  were  Sir  Thomas  Henry  Grattan 
Esmonde  and  Arthur  O’Connor,  members  of  Parliament. 
They  were  given  an  enthusiastic  reception  at  the  Boston 
Theater  on  the  evening  of  October  9,  Governor  Ames  pre- 
siding. 

O’  Reilly  had  not  come  prepared  to  address  the  meeting, 
but  the  repeated  calls  of  the  people  drew  out  the  following 
brief  response,  the  allusion  to  General  Paine  being  in  con- 
nection with  the  victory  of  the  latter’s  yacht,  Volunteer , in 
defense  of  the  America's  cup  : 

There  is  no  other  reason  for  the  Governor  calling  upon  me  to-night 
than  one  of  revenge  because  I am  not  a Republican.  While  Father 
McKenna  was  speaking  about  Faneuil  Hall,  I concluded  that  he  was 
present  at  the  reception  the  other  night.  The  words  in  the  Boston  press 
that  “blood  told ” reminded  us  that  General  Paine’s  grandfather  signed 
the  Declaration  of  Independence.  General  Paine  got  a great  Boston 
reception,  as  great  a reception  as  his  grandfather  could  have  got,  or 
could  have  desired,  and  he  deserved  it.  And  the  next  great  reception 
given  is  to  the  grandson  of  another  great  man  who  signed,  who  made, 
a nation’s  Declaration  of  Independence.  Blood  tells,  and  this  man 
comes  to  speak  with  the  blood  of  his  great  grandfather  surging  in  his 
veins.  He  has  come  to  the  blue  blood.  He  is  come  to  the  blood  which 
supports  the  world  : the  blood  of  the  working  people,  the  blood  of 
honest,  industrious  men  and  women.  This  is  the  blood  which  runs 
through  revolutions.  This  is  the  blood  of  the  Grattans.  This  is  the 
blood  of  the  O’Connors,  splendidly  presented  to  us  in  that  Irishman 
(pointing  to  Arthur  O’Connor),  who  has  in  the  Nationalist  ranks  the 
name  of  being  the  ablest  and  safest  man  in  the  party  next  to  Parnell. 
I have  not  a word  to  say  but  that. 

I had  not  thought  of  being  called  on,  but  I say  to  Sir  Thomas 
Esmonde  to-night  that  he  might  come  to  America,  with  all  the  men 
with  titles  in  England,  and  they  never  would  get  such  a reception  as  he 
will  get  from  Boston  to  the  Pacific.  I saw  in  an  English  paper  that  he 
had  gone  away  from  his  class  for  the  association  of  common'  people. 
You  are  speaking  (turning  to  Mr.  Esmonde)  in  England  to  30,000,000 
people  ; in  America  you  are  speaking  to  60,000,000  people.  We  have 


328 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’UEILLY. 


forty  cities  here  bigger  than  any  city  but  London  in  Great  Britain. 
From  the  Gulf  of  Mexico  to  Canada  and  from  Boston  to  the  Pacific  the 
blood  of  the  people  goes  out  to  you,  not  because  you  are  an  aristocrat 
with  an  English  title,  but  because  you  are  an  Irishman,  a patriot,  a 
gentleman  with  pluck,  courage,  and  sacrificial  strength  in  you.  I ask 
you,  sir,  do  you  regret  any  class  you  have  abandoned  to  come  to  the 
welcome  of  this  pulsing,  human,  Am erican-liberty- loving  blood  of  the 
world,  instead  of  a class  ? 

John  Breslin,  the  gallant  leader  of  the  Catalpa  rescue, 
died  in  New  York  on  November  18.  To  the  last  hour  of 
his  life  he  remained  a firm  believer  in  revolution  as  the  only- 
true  remedy  for  Ireland’s  wrongs.  In  his  dying  utterances 
the  name  of  his  country  was  constantly  on  his  lips. 

On  December  2,  O’Reilly’s  life-long  friend  and  comrade 
in  treason,  imprisonment,  and  exile,  Corporal  Thomas 
Chambers,  died  at  the  Carney  Hospital,  Boston,  a prema- 
turely aged  man,  whose  vitality  had  been  fatally  under- 
mined in  the  swamps  of  Dartmoor.  “ In  his  case,  at  least,” 
wrote  O’Reilly,  “ England’s  vengeance  was  complete  ; the 
rebel’s  life  was  turned  into  a torture,  and  his  earthly 
career  arrested  by  the  deadly  seeds  of  early  decay.” 
Chambers  was  set  free  when  it  was  seen  that  he  was  no 
longer  a danger  to  the  empire.  He  had  spent  fourteen 
years  in  prison.  About  six  months  before  his  death 
O’  Reilly  had  him  placed  in  the  Carney  Hospital,  where  he 
received  the  tenderest  care  and  attention.  Of  him  he  said  : 

I was  with  him  on  Saturday  night  a few  hours  before  he  died ; he 
appeared  to  be  unconscious  when  I stood  beside  his  bed,  but  he  opened 
his  eyes  at  the  touch  of  my  hand,  and,  though  he  could  not  speak,  his 
eyes  answered  that  he  recognized  me.  Another  old  friend,  James 
Wrenn,  of  Charlestown,  was  there,  too,  and  the  dying  man  answered 
his  look  also  with  full  recognition.  He  was  wasted  to  a skeleton.  He 
had  suffered  horribly  for  nearly  twenty  years.  When  he  went  to  prison 
he  was  the  happiest  and  merriest  fellow  I ever  knew.  He  was  young 
and  strong,  and  he  looked  at  the  gloomiest  things  not  only  with  a smile 
but  a laugh.  He  was  the  bravest  and  tenderest  man  to  others  in  trouble 
that  I have  ever  known.  Fellow-prisoners  soon  learned  to  appreciate 
this  rare  and  beautiful  quality.  For  two  years,  while  I was  in  prison  in 
England,  he  and  I were  chained  together  whenever  we  were  moved, 
and  we  generally  managed  to  get  another  rebel,  named  McCarthy,  on 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


329 


the  same  chain.  McCarthy’s  health  was  quite  broken,  and  he  had  sunk 
into  a melancholy  that  was  something  hopeless  ; but  while  he  was 
chained  to  Chambers  he  used  to  laugh  all  the  time  like  a boy.  The 
English  Government  at  that  time  thought  it  was  a salutary  exhibition 
to  parade  the  Irish  rebels  in  chains  in  the  streets.  I remember  one  day, 
when  we  were  marched  through  the  streets  of  London,  all  abreast  on  one 
chain  (we  were  going  from  Pentonville  to  Millbank),  with  the  crowds 
staring  at  us,  Chambers  made  McCarthy  laugh  so  heartily  that  it 
brought  on  a fit  of  coughing,  and  we  had  to  halt  till  the  poor  fellow- 
got  his  breath.  This  thought  came  to  me  as  poor  Chambers’s  eyes  met 
mine  in  the  speechless  look,  Saturday  night,  as  he  lay  dying.  He  was 
a true  man  for  any  time  or  cause  or  country.  So  long  as  you  can  find 
such  men,  absolutely  faithful  to  an  ideal,  fearless,  patient,  and  prudent, 
the  organized  wrongs  do  not  control  the  world.  Such  men  need  not  be 
brilliant  or  able  or  impressive  ; but  if  they  fill  their  own  identity  with 
truth  and  resolution,  they  are  great  forces,  and  the  most  valuable  and 
honorable  of  men.  That  was  just  the  kind  of  man  Thomas  Chambers 
was. 

O’Reilly  forgot,  or  seldom  mentioned,  the  indignities 
heaped  on  himself  by  his  English  jailers,  but  he  never 
forgot  nor  forgave  those  endured  by  poor,  light-hearted, 
long-suffering  Chambers.  While  he  lay,  awaiting  sentence, 
in  Arbor  Hill  Prison,  Dublin,  in  1866,  he  wrote  as  follows 
concerning  the  first  of  those  cruelties  inflicted  on  his  boyish 
fellow-rebel,  in  a letter  (worth  quoting  at  length)  which  he 
had  smuggled  out  of  prison,  and  addressed  : 

TO  ALL  THE  DEAR  ONES  OUTSIDE. 

Not  a word  yet — not  even  a hint  of  what  my  doom  is  to  be  ; but 
whatever  it  may  be  I’m  perfectly  content.  God’s  will  be  done.  It  has 
done  me  good  to  be  in  prison ; there  is  more  to.be  learned  in  a solitary 
cell  than  any  other  place  in  the  world — a true  knowledge  of  one’s  self. 
I send  you  a note  I got  from  Tom  Chambers.  Poor  fellow,  he’s  the 
truest-hearted  Irishman  I ever  met.  What  a wanton  cruelty  it  was  to 
brand  him  with  the  letter  D,  and  be  doomed  a felon  for  life.  Just 
imagine  the  torture  of  stabbing  a man  over  the  heart  with  an  awl,  and 
forming  a D two  inches  long  and  half  an  inch  thick,  and  then  rubbing 
in  Indian  ink.  He  was  ordered  that  for  deserting.  His  brother  was 
nearly  mad,  and  no  wonder.  McCarthy  has  been  sentenced  in  Mount- 
joy  to  fourteen  days  on  bread  and  water  and  solitary  confinement  for 
some  breach  of  the  prison  rules.  I know  this  for  a fact.  Here  in  this 
prison  every  one  is  very  kind  to  me,  from  chief  warder  down  to  the  lowest. 


330 


.JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 

Tom  calls  his  brother  the  “ mad  b,”  so  that  if  our  letters  were  found 
they  would  not  know  who  was  meant.  But  lately  we  are  not  very 
cautious — let  them  find  them  if  they  like— they  cannot  give  us  any 
more.  Harrington,  of  the  Sixty-first,  and  I will  receive  our  sentence  on 

the  same  day.  He’s  an  old  soldier  and  was  taken  for  desertion 

They  told  those  poor  cowardly  hounds  who  did  inform,  that  Chambers 
and  I were  going  to  give  evidence  against  them — so  as  to  frighten  them 
into  giving  evidence  against  us.  This  has  been  done  by  officers  and 
-gentlemen!  Well,  even  if  we  never  see  home  or  friends  again,  we 
are  ten  thousand  times  happier  than  any  such  hounds  can  ever  be. 
When  we  go  to  our  prisons  and  all  suspense  is  over,  we  will  be  quite 
happy.  Never  fret  for  me,  whatever  I get.  Please  God,  in  a few  years 
I will  be  released  and  even  if  prevented  from  coming  to  Ireland  will  be 
happy  yet.  And  if  not,  God’s  holy  will  be  done.  Pray  for  me  and  for 
us  all.  It  would  grieve  you  to  hear  the  poor  fellows  here  talking.  At 
night  they  knock  on  the  wall  as  a signal  to  each  other  to  pray  together 
for  their  country’s  freedom.  Men,  who  a few  months  ago  were  care- 
less, thoughtless  soldiers,  are  now  changed  into  true,  firm  patriots, 
however  humble.  They  never  speak  on  any  other  subject,  and  all  are 
perfectly  happy  to  suffer  for  old  Ireland. 

Late  in  November,  1888,  a furious  tempest  raged  over 
Massachusetts  Bay,  and  three  vessels  were  driven  ashore  on 
the  beach  of  Hull,  where  was  O’ Reilly’s  summer  residence. 
Fifteen  brave  fishermen  of  the  village  put  out  through  the 
boiling  surf,  and,  laboring  for  half  a day,  rescued  twenty- 
eight  lives.  The  Hull  Yacht  Club  gave  a dinner  at  the 
Parker  House,  Boston,  on  December  22,  having  for  its 
guests  Mayor-elect  Hart,  John  Boyle  O’Reilly,  Commo- 
dore B.  W.  Crowninshield,  Captain  Joshua  James  of  the 
Hull  life-saving  crew,  and  Mr.  Taylor  Harrington. 
Speeches  laudatory  of  the  heroes  were  made,  Commodore 
Rice  especially  eulogizing  them  as  a type  of  “ Anglo- 
Saxon  courage.”  O’Reilly  responding  to  the  toast,  “ The 
Heroes  of  Hull,”  praised  the  English  life-saving  service 
and  those  of  other  European  countries,  but  claimed  the 
first  place  for  that  of  the  United  States.  “ The  Massachu- 
setts Humane  Society,”  he  said,  “has  now  five  stations  on 
Nantasket  Beach,  and  every  one  of  those  stations  is  in 
charge  of  one  brave  and  devoted  man — one  man  who 
assisted  at  the  saving  of  over  130  lives — the  gallant  man 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES.  331 

who  is  your  guest  this  evening — Captain  Joshua  James.  I 
do  not  know  how  to  proceed  when  I come  to  speak  of  such 
a man — brave,  simple,  modest,  unconscious  of  his  heroism 
— who  has  again  and  again  been  rewarded  and  honored  and 
medaled  for  deeds  of  extraordinary  courage  and  self-sacri- 
fice in  the  saving  of  life  on  the  coast.” 

After  graphically  describing  the  latest  exploit  of  Cap- 
tain James  and  his  crew,  he  said  : 

And  when  they  returned  to  their  home  that  day,  what  had  they 
accomplished  ? They  had  rescued  from  the  sea  twenty-eight  men  in 
twelve  hours,  a record  that  has  never  been  surpassed  for  bravery  and 
endurance  on  this  coast.  The  brave  men  who  dared  to  face  all  this 
hardship  were  Captain  Joshua  James,  Eben  T.  Pope,  Osceola  James, 
George  Pope,  Eugene  Mitchell,  Eugene  Mitchell,  Jr.,  George  Augus- 
tus, Alonzo  L.  and  John  L.  Mitchell,  Alfred  and  Joseph  and  Louis 
Galiano,  Frank  James,  and  William  B.  Mitchell.  The  eloquent  orator 
who  preceded  me  seemed  to  exclude  all  but  Anglo-Saxons  from  sym- 
pathy with  this  bravery.  I do  not  care  whether  a man  is  an  Anglo- 
Saxon  or  not,  if  he  be  a hero.  Carlyle  says  that  a hero  makes  all  but 
petty  men  forget  the  bonds  of  race  and  class.  From  the  hero  all  small 
limitations  fall  away.  His  note  meets  a response  in  every  man’s  heart. 

And  as  to  Anglo-Saxons,  let  me  speak  for  the  men  of  Hull — the 
men  who  pulled  the  oars  in  Captain  James’s  boat — for  I have  the  honor 
to  know  every  one  of  them  as  an  old  friend.  I know  that  the  Jameses 
themselves  are  Dutchmen  by  blood  ; that  the  Mitchells  are  Austrians  ; 
that  the  Popes  are  Yankees  ; that  the  Augustuses  are  from  Rome,  and 
the  Galianos  also  are  Italians.  But  what  of  their  blood  and  their 
race  ? These  brave  men  are  neither  Dutch  nor  Irish — they  are  Ameri- 
cans. And  the  men  of  Hull  are  types  not  only  of  Massachusetts,  but 
of  America.  A section  of  Hull  is  a section  of  the  nation.  We  are 
gathering  and  boiling  down  here  all  the  best  blood  of  Europe — the 
blood  of  the  people.  Not  to  build  up  an  Anglo-Saxon  or  any  other 
petty  community,  but  to  make  the  greatest  nation  and  the  strongest 
manhood  that  God  ev€  r smiled  upon, 

O’Reilly  remembered  his  life-saving  friends,  a year 
later,  when  an  opportunity  arose  of  his  being  serviceable 
to  one  of  the  heroes.  Thanks  to  his  masterly  presentation 
of  the  case,  the  following  letter  was  favorably  considered 
by  the  National  Life-saving  Service  Department.  It  is  ad- 
dressed to  Hon.  Edward  A.  Moseley  : 


332 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


Boston,  October  28,  1889. 

Dear  Ned  : 

I shall  be  in  Washington  on  the  evening  of  November  9,  at  the 
Riggs  House.  I lecture  for  some  charity  next  day,  Sunday. 

I want  you  to  do  me  and  the  Hull  public  and  humanity  generally 
a great  favor.  (I  am  still  living  at  Hull, — in  the  new  house.)  Cap- 
tain Joshua  James,  the  chief  of  the  new  United  States  life-saving 
crew  at  Hull,  has  not  yet  appointed  his  men.  He  told  me  last  night 
that  he  wanted  a first-class  man  as  No.  1 of  the  crew,  and  that  the  best 
man  in  Hull,  and  one  of  the  ablest  surfmen  on  the  whole  coast,  Alonzo 
Mitchell,  was  a year  over  the  official  age.  I know  Alonzo  Mitchell, 
and  he  is  all  he  says — a brave,  powerful,  cool-headed,  experienced 
surfman  ; and  a younger  man  than  you  or  I. 

What  I want  you  to  do  is  to  ask  Mr.  Kimball  to  allow  Capt.  James 
to  appoint  Alonzo  Mitchell.  Capt.  James  is  otherwise  hampered  in  the 
restrictions  regarding  relatives,  for  all  our  regular  Hull  fishermen  are 
intermarried  in  the  most  extraordinary  way.  But  this  really  ought  to 
be  allowed.  It  gives  Capt.  James  as  second  the  very  best  man  in  the 
town,  his  own  selection,  in  whom  he  has  complete  confidence. 

Will  you  kindly  urge  this  on  Mr.  Kimball,  and -let  me  know  the 
result  ? 

And  I am  always  affectionately  yours, 

John  Boyle  O’Reilly. 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 


Another  Author’s  Beading,  “A  Philistine’s  Views”  on  Erotic  Litera- 
ture— Poem  on  the  Pilgrim  Fathers  — Another,  ‘ ‘ From  the 
Heights,”  for  the  Catholic  University — Attacked  by  La  Grippe — 
Hopes  of  another  Canoe  Cruise — Brave  Words  for  the  Negro  and 
the  Hebrew — “ The  Useless  Ones,”  his  Last  Poem — Lecturing  Tour 
to  the  Pacific  Coast — Definition  of  Democracy — Views  on  the 
Catholic  Congress — His  Last  Canoeing  Paper  and  Last  Editorials 
— A Characteristic  Deed  of  Kindness — His  Death. 

THE  presidential  campaign  of  1888  had  disgusted 
O’Reilly  with  practical  politics.  On  New  Year’s  Eve 
he  registered  this  good  resolution  in  a letter  to  a friend  in 
Washington  : 

I shall  cease  all  political  connections  to-morrow  ; never  again  shall 
I excite  myself  over  an  election.  My  experience  of  the  past  four  years, 
and  the  past  four  months  particularly,  has  cured  me. 

During  all  his  life  he  had  instinctively  avoided  local 
political  entanglements.  His  first  experience  of  national 
politics  brought  him  into  contact  with  some  professional 
managers,  who  acted  after  the  manner  of  their  kind  and 
made  the  refined  and  sensitive  poet  utterly  sick  of  the 
association.  Thenceforth,  more  than  ever,  he  shunned  the 
field  of  political  strife,  and  devoted  himself  to  his  profes- 
sional and  literary  work. 

The  Author’s  Reading  for  the  benefit  of  the  International 
Copyright  Association  was  given  at  the  Boston  Museum  on 
the  afternoon  of  March  7.  Among  those  who  took  part 
were  Dr.  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes,  Samuel  L.  Clemens 
(“Mark  Twain”),  Charles  Dudley  Warner,  Mrs.  Julia 
Ward  Howe,  Richard  Malcolm  Johnston,  F.  Hopkinson 
Smith,  John  Boyle  O’Reilly,  George  W.  Cable,  and  Col. 
Thomas  Wentworth  Higginson.  O’Reilly’s  selections  were  : 

333 


334 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


“A  Few  Epigrams,”  “ Ensign  Epps,  the  Color  Bearer,” 
“A  Wonderful  Country  Far  Away,”  and  “In  Bohemia.” 

The  New  York  Herald , after  the  fashion  of  the  period, 
wrote  to  several  leading  authors  of  the  country  for  expres- 
sions of  opinion  on  the  question  of  morality  in  novels.  The 
answers  were  published  in  its  edition  of  March  24,  1889. 
O’Reilly’s  reply  was  entitled  “A  Philistine’s  Views”: 

Romantic  literature  belongs  to  the  domain  of  art,  on  the  same  level 
as  sculpture,  painting,  and  the  drama.  In  none  of  these  other  expres- 
sions is  the  abnormal,  the  corrupt,  the  wantonly  repulsive  allowable. 
The  line  of  treatment  on  these  subjects  is  definitely  drawn  and  gener- 
ally acknowledged.  The  unnecessarily  foul  is  unpardonable. 

Why  should  not  the  same  limit  be  observed  in  romantic  literature  ? 
All  art  deals  with  nature  and  truth,  but  not  with  all  nature  and  all 
truth.  A festering  sore  is  part  of  nature  ; it  directly  affects  the  thought 
and  action  of  the  sufferer,  and  it  is  as  unsightly,  as  deplorable,  and  as 
potent  as  the  festering  vice  on  the  soul.  Why  should  the  latter  be 
allowed  and  the  bodily  sore  forbidden  ? The  average  middle-class 
American  reader,  male  or  female,  is  a Philistine — unquestionably  the 
most  impervious  and  cloaked  conventionality  known  to  all  nations,  not 
even  excepting  the  “ lower  middle-class  ” English.  He  wants  his  fiction 
to  be  as  proper,  as  full  of  small  exactitudes  in  demeanor,  as  ‘ ‘ good  an 
example  ” on  the  outside,  as  he  is  himself.  Humbug  as  he  is,  he  is  far 
preferable  to  the  “ natural  ” type  of  the  morbid  morality  mongers,  who 
teach  the  lesson  of  an  hour  by  a life-long  corruption.  The  Philistine 
has  a right  to  his  taste,  and  he  is  right  in  voting  down  the  Zola  school 
as  the  best  for  his  children.  Being  a Philistine  myself,  I vote  with  him. 

He  was  anything  but  the  Philistine  which  he  calls  him- 
self above,  save  only  in  the  matter  of  clean  thought  and 
speech  and  writing.  Living  in  an  age  of  so-called  realism 
in  literature,  when  the  “poetry  of  passion”  had  leaped  its 
sewer  banks  and  touched  some  very  high  ground,  John 
Boyle  O’Reilly’s  feet  were  never  for  an  instant  contami- 
nated by  the  filthy  flood.  He  never  wrote  a line  which  the 
most  innocent  might  not  read  with  safety.  He  never  used 
a vile  word  ; there  was  none  such  in  his  vocabulary.  This 
means  much,  when  we  remember  that  he  left  his  home,  when 
only  a child,  to  spend  the  formative  years  of  his  life, 
first,  in  the  rough  school  of  the  composing-room,  next  in  the 
grosser  environment  of  the  barrack-room,  and  finally  in 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


335 


society’s  cess-pool,  the  prison  yard  and  convict  gang. 
Nothing  but  the  grace  of  heaven,  and  the  absolute  refine- 
ment with  which  he  was  born,  could  have  brought  him  out 
of  these  debased  surroundings  a pure-minded  man  and  a 
stainless,  high-bred  gentleman.  His  writings  are  pure 
because  he  could  not  write  otherwise. 

A Democratic  mayor  in  New  York  having  allowed  the 
Irish  flag  to  occupy  a modest  xflace  on  the  City  Hall  on  St. 
Patrick’s  Day  this  year,  an  Englishman  wrote  to  Mayor 
Grant  on  behalf  of  his  fellow-countrymen  requesting  that 
the  British  flag  be  floated  from  the  same  building  on  St. 
George’ s Day.  ‘ ‘ By  all  means, ’ ’ commented  O’  Reilly,  ‘ ‘ let 
the  British  flag  float.  It  has  as  much  right  on  the  City 
Hall  as  the  green  or  any  other  foreign  flag.  It  will  but 
remind  every  American  of  the  time  it  floated  there  as  a 
menace  to  the  people,  supported  by  the  bayonets  of  its 
foreign  legions,  while  the  green  flag  and  the  nation  it 
represents  were  spiritually  and  bodily  supporting  Wash- 
ington in  the  field.” 

On  May  11,  he  delivered  an  address  before  the  Paint  and 
Oil  Club  of  Boston,  on  the  future  of  the  Dismal  Swamp. 
He  lectured  through  the  season  in  various  parts  of  New 
England.  In  compliance  with  the  request  of  the  Scranton 
Truth  he  acted  as  judge  in  the  competition  for  a prize  to 
be  awarded  to  the  best  poem  on  the  subject  of  the  Samoan 
disaster.  He  awarded  the  prize  to  Homer  Greene’s  poem, 
“ The  Banner  of  the  Sea.” 

In  May,  he  accepted  an  invitation  to  prepare  a poem  for 
the  dedication  of  the  national  monument  to  the  Pilgrim 
Fathers  at  Plymouth,  Mass. 

The  selection  of  a foreign-born  citizen  for  this  office 
surprised  and  offended  some  narrow-minded  people  who, 
through  no  fault  of  theirs,  but  by  their  constitutional 
limitations,  were  unable  to  appreciate  either  his  poetical 
genius  or  the  catholic  breadth  of  his  nature.  But  all,  even 
the  most  doubtful,  were  convinced  and  delighted,  when  the 
masterly  poem  was  read,  that  this  alien-born  citizen,  pre- 
cisely because  he  was  such,  had  learned  to  grasp,  as  no 


336 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


native  could,  the  splendid  lesson  and  example  given  to  the 
world  by  the  Pilgrim  Fathers. 

They  had  on  servile  order,  no  dumb  throat  ; 

They  trusted  first  the  universal  vote ; 

The  first  were  they  to  practice  and  instill 
The  rule  of  law  and  not  the  rule  of  will ; 

They  lived  one  noble  test:  who  would  be  freed 
Must  give  up  all  to  follow  duty’s  lead. 

They  made  no  revolution  based  on  blows, 

But  taught  one  truth  that  all  the  planet  knows, 

That  all  men  think  of,  looking  on  a throne— 

The  people  may  be  trusted  with  their  own. 

* * * * * * 

The  past  is  theirs — the  future  ours  ; and  we 
Must  learn  and  teach.  Oh,  may  our  records  be 
Like  theirs,  a glory  symboled  in  a stone, 

To  speak  as  this  speaks,  of  our  labors  done, 

They  had  no  model ; but  they  left  us  one. 

Ex-Governor  Long,  President  of  the  Pilgrim  Society, 
introduced  O’Reilly  humorously,  as  follows : 

The  poet  is  the  next  descendant  of  the  Pilgrims  whom  I shall  present 
to  you.  Though  he  resides  in  the  neighboring  hamlet  of  Boston,  he 
was  born  not  on  the  mainland,  but  on  a small  island  out  at  sea  ; yet 
not  so  far  out  that  it  is  not,  and  has  not  been,  in  the  liveliest  and  most 
constant  communication  with  us ; but  he  is  a genuine  New  England 
Pilgrim,  and  to  a Pilgrim’s  love  of  truth  he  adds  a certain  ecstasy  of 
the  imagination  and  a musical  note  like  that  of  a bird  singing  in  the 
woods.  Puritan  New  England  recognizes  him  as  one  of  its  songsters. 
Most  seriously,  I believe  nothing  could  be  in  better  keeping  with  the 
comprehensiveness  of  this  occasion,  and  that  the  spirit  of  this  pilgrim 
makes  a memory,  than  that  he  should  write  and  speak  the  poem  of  the 
day ; for  while  in  none  of  the  discriminations  of  race  or  of  creed,  yet 
in  all  the  pulses  of  his  heart  and  brain  as  an  American  citizen,  he  is  at 
one  with  the  genius  of  the  Pilgrim  landing  and  of  the  civil  and  relig- 
ious liberty  of  which  it  was  a token. 

One  minor  tribute  received  by  the  poet,  but  one  which 
he  could  well  appreciate,  was  given  on  the  day  following 
the  reading  of  the  poem.  He  was  spending  the  summer  at 
Hull,  as  usual,  going  to  his  office  every  day  by  the  Harbor 
steamer.  As  he  came  on  board  that  day,  the  throng  of 
passengers  had  their  morning  papers  and  were  reading  the 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


337 


account  of  the  exercises  at  Plymouth.  The  Irish  singer’s 
paean  to  their  Fathers  touched  the  undemonstrative  Yankee 
heart,  and  they  stood  up  and  cheered  the  poet  as  he  reached 
the  deck. 

The  Pilgrim  poem  was  the  crowning  work  of  his  life  as 
an  American  singer,  for  New  England  thought  dominates 
America,  and  the  man  chosen  to  celebrate  the  glory  of  the 
Forefathers  was  regarded  as  a sort  of  poet  laureate  to  their 
descendants.  Outside  of  New  England,  and  apart  from 
those  who  knew  her  history,  the  poet  and  his  work  were 
somewhat  criticized.  It  was  said  that  he  had  extolled  the 
narrow  Puritans  and  forgotten  their  intolerance,  and  some 
hasty  censors  accused  him  of  having  brought  the  Blarney 
Stone  into  conjunction  with  Plymouth  Pock.  The  accusa- 
tion was  wholly  wrong.  O’Peilly  would  not  have  flattered 
an  emperor  for  his  crown.  He  knew  the  difference  between 
Pilgrim  and  Puritan  ; and  while  he  recognized  the  austerity 
of  both,  he  remembered  of  the  former  that 

They  never  lied  in  practice,  peace,  or  strife  ; 

They  were  no  hypocrites  ; their  faith  was  clear  ; 

and  whatever  their  defects  might  have  been,  his  manhood 
warmed  to  the  manly  immigrants  who  ‘ ‘ broke  no  com- 
pact” and  u owned  no  slave.” 

His  little  poem,  “ What  is  Good?”  was  published  in 
the  Georgetown  (D.  C.)  College  Journal , in  October.  It 
contains,  in  four  words,  the  creed  by  which  he  lived,  the 
ideal  to  which  he  reached  : 

Kindness  is  the  word. 

On  November  10,  he  attended  the  celebration  of  the  cen- 
tenary of  the  Catholic  Church  in  America,  at  St.  Mary’s 
Cathedral,  Baltimore,  and  was  present  at  the  dedication  of 
the  American  Catholic  University  of  Washington,  D.  C., 
three  days  later.  He  lectured  in  Washington  on  Novem- 
ber 10,  in  aid  of  St.  Patrick’s  Church,  on  Capitol  Hill,  and 
read  his  poem,  “ From  the  Heights,”  at  the  banquet  of  the 
Catholic  University  on  the  13th,  before  the  President  and 
Vice-President  of  the  United  States,  Cardinals  Gibbons 


338 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 

and  Taschereau,  and  other  great  civic  and  religions  digni- 
taries. No  layman  in  America  stood  higher  in  the  estima- 
tion of  his  co-religionists  at  this  time  than  John  Boyle 
O’Reilly.  No  man,  lay  or  secular,  had  done  more  in  his 
life-time  to  make  his  religion  respected  by  non-Catholics. 

He  had  been  invited  to  prepare  a paper  for  the  first 
Catholic  Congress,  held  in  Baltimore,  on  November  12. 
He  attended  the  Congress,  but  for  reasons  explained  in  the 
following  letter,  could  not  take  an  active  part  in  its  pro- 
ceedings : 

Crawford  House,  White  Mountains,  N.  H., 

September  25,  1889. 

Dear  Mr.  Harson: 

Your  letter  finds  me  here  in  the  mountains  trying  to  get  over  the 
effects  of  a year’s  incessant  overwork,  and,  however  kindly  you  express 
it,  you  ask  me  to  begin  overworking  again, — before  I am  rested, — and 
with  too  short  notice  to  prepare  a paper  for  the  Catholic  Congress.  I 
cannot  leave  here,  wisely,  for  at  least  ten  days  more.  I will  then  return 
to  a mountainous  accumulation  of  work.  This  will  prevent  me  from 
giving  due  consideration  to  any.  subject  suitable  for  an  address  at  the 
Congress. . It  is  not  a place  for  hasty  or  raw  expression,  and  I know 
that  the  gentlemen  who  have  papers  prepared  have  given  them  full 
and  timely  treatment. 

Had  I known  a couple  of  months  ago  that  I was  to  be  asked  to  read 
an  address  I might  have  been  able;  but  now  it  is  quite  too  late, — under 
the  circumstances, — and  while  thanking  you  for  the  invitation,  and  the 
delightful  manner  in  which  it  is  expressed,  I congratulate  the  Congress 
on  its  escape. 

I am  deeply  interested  in  the  success  of  the  Congress,  and  I beg  that 
you  will  enable  me  to  use  the  Pilot  for  that  end. 

I am  just  recovering  from  a repeated  attack  of  insomnia,  which  has 
so  alarmed  my  wife  that  I have  promised  her  to  abstain  from  all 
engagements,  outside  my  editorial  work,  for  a whole  year. 

I am,  dear  Mr.  Harson, 

Very  truly  yours, 

J.  Boyle  O’Reilly. 

M.  J.  Harson,  Esq.,  Providence,  R.  I. 

There  is  a pathetic  interest  in  the  prospectus  which  he 
issued  the  last  week  of  this  year,  outlining  the  conduct  of 
his  paper  for  1890,  and  looking  hopefully  to  the  close  of 
Ireland’s  long  struggle,  when  the  “Irish  Question”  should 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES.  339 

no  longer  be  foremost  in  the  mind  of  this  great  Irish- 
man : 

When  Irish- Americans  look  across  the  ocean  to  a redeemed  and 
prosperous  Ireland,  expressing  the  genius  of  her  people  as  of  old,  her 
rivers  humming  with  industry,  her  bays  white  with  shipping,  her 
emigration  stopped,  and  her  homes  comfortable  and  happy,  then  the 
Pilot  may  turn  its  whole  attention  to  the  interests  of  the  greater  Ireland 
on  this  continent. 

Little  did  he  foresee  what  the  New  Year  was  to  bring  to 
him.  Could  he  have  foreseen  all,  he  would  have  grieved 
most  for  the  fallacy  of  these  hopeful  words  about  his 
beloved  country  : 

The  future  fights  for  Parnell  and  Gladstone.  The  world  applauds 
them.  They  enter  the  New  Year  with  greater  confidence  of  success 
than  ever. 

In  December,  the  epidemic  known  as  4 4 la  grippe,”  at- 
tacked O’Reilly  and  all  his  household.  He,  his  wife,  his 
four  children,  and  two  servants  were  all  prostrated  at  once, 
and  unable  to  leave  their  beds.  4 4 1 never  was  so  sick  in 
my  life,”  he  wrote  to  his  friend  Moseley ; 44  nor  have  I seen 
so  much  dangerous  illness  in  my  house  before.  So  don’t 
laugh  at  4 la  grippe,’  but  fear  it,  and  pray  that  it  may  not 
seize  you  or  yours.” 

Mr.  Moseley  had  several  times  admired  a handsome 
blackthorn  cane  which  General  Collins  had  brought  to 
O’  Reilly  from  Ireland.  The  latter  once  said  to  him,  in  his 
inimitable,  quaint  way,  44  Ned,  that  stick  has  a story;  it 
has  done  murder  in  a good  cause.  Some  day  I will  write 
you  its  history.”  He  never  wrote  the  history,  but  he  sent 
the  cane  to  his  friend,  with  the  following  letter : 

Before  I was  knocked  out  (by  la  grippe)  I tried  to  get  the  right  kind 
of  a blackthorn  for  you,  but  I could  not  satisfy  myself.  I had  four 
sticks  myself,  all  beauties,  but  three  of  them  had  been  formally  given 
to  me  as  personal  presents  by  friends.  The  fourth  was  my  own  private 
stick — one  that  dear  Collins  brought  from  Ireland,  which  he  gave  me, 
not  as  a personal  present,  but  just  a stick  to  keep  or  give  away  as  I 
chose.  I chose  to  keep  it ; and  I sent  it  to  a jeweler  and  had  the  band 
of  silver  put  on  and  the  stick  varnished.  But  when  I failed  to  get  you 
a proper  stick,  to  last  all  your  life,  I said,  ‘ ‘ I will  give  him  my  own 


340 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


stick  and  tell  Collins  I want  him  to  get  and  give  me  in  proper  form, 
with  his  own  inscription,  another  stick.”  The  fact  was  that  every  time 
I looked  on  the  inscription  I was  dissatisfied,  and  said  to  myself, 
“Collins  didn’t  put  that  there.”  So  I sent  it  back  to  the  jeweler  and 
told  him  to  put  on  the  same  kind  of  band,  and  to  inscribe  the  stick  from 
me  to  you. 

So,  long  may  you  have  and  wear  it,  my  own  dear  boy. 

Remember  me  kindly  to  Mrs.  Moseley  and  Katherine,  and  to  Weller, 
when  you  see  him. 

And  a Happy  New  Year  to  you  and  yours. 

Affectionately, 

John  Boyle  O’Reilly. 

In  January  of  1890,  he  wrote  again  to  his  friend,  sug- 
gesting a vacation  in  early  May  along  the  eastern  shore  of 
Maryland.  “ Would  that  be  a good  place  for  an  absolute 
rest  \ ” he  asks  ; “I  was  thinking  of  a tent  on  the  beach — 
shooting  and  fishing,  and  lying  in  the  sand  all  day,  like 
savages.  How  is  it  3 ” 

Four  days  later,  he  wrote  again  : 

Dear  Ned  : 

....  I am  going  West  in  March  for  a month  of  hard  work.  In 
May,  please  God,  we  will  go  down  to  that  eastern  shore— and  take  a 
howl  in  the  primeval.  I am  tired  to  death.  . . . 

Would  one  canoe  do  for  the  beach  ? My  canoe  is  smashed.  What 
do  you  think  of  a permanent  camp  on  the  beach,  with  fishing,  shoot- 
ing, etc.,  and  only  using  the  canoe  for  this  ? 

The  proposed  vacation  was  never  enjoyed.  The  west- 
ern trip  of  which  he  speaks  involved  much  preparation 
and  care,  and  on  its  termination  other  things  occurred  to 
postpone  the  canoe  cruise.  His  canoe,  called  after  his 
youngest  child,  Blanid,  had  been  crushed  and  wrecked  at 
its  moorings  in  Hull,  and  he  did  not  procure  another  ; in 
fact,  it  is  doubtful  if  he  would  have  made  many  more  out- 
door trips  had  he  lived.  He  had  grown  perceptibly  older 
during  the  last  year  or  two  of  his  life.  The  last  flash  of 
the  old  adventurous  spirit  that  I can  remember  came  out 
when  Cardinal  Lavigerie,  the  great  enemy  of  the  slave 
trade  in  Africa,  said  that  the  infamous  traffic  could  be  sup- 
pressed by  force  of  arms,  if  only  “ one  thousand  men,  pre- 
pared for  suffering  and  sacrifice, — men  who  desired  no 


341 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 

reward  or  recompense,  except  that  which  the  consciousness 
of  having  given  away  time,  health,  and  even  life,  brings 
with  it, — would  undertake  the  task.  If  there  are  any  such 
men  in  America,”  said  the  Cardinal,  “I  will  be  glad  to 
hear  from  them,  and  particularly  glad  to  enroll  the  eman- 
cipated blacks  in  my  little  army.” 

“There!”  exclaimed  O’Reilly,  “that  is  the  work  I 
would  like  to  do.”  But  for  the  hostages  to  fortune,  I 
think  he  would  have  volunteered  to  raise  the  little  army 
on  the  spot. 

He  had  great  faith  in  the  possibilities  of  the  Southern 
negro.  When  the  news  of  the  butchery  of  eight  black 
men  at  Barnwell,  S.  C.,  was  received,  following  three  or 
four  other  similar  ghastly  stories,  he  wrote  : 

The  black  race  in  the  South  must  face  the  inevitable,  soon  or  late, 
and  the  inevitable  is — defend  yourself.  If  they  shrink  from  this, 
they  will  be  trampled  on  with  yearly  increasing  cruelty  until  they 
have  sunk  back  from  the  great  height  of  American  freedom  to  which 
the  war- wave  carried  them.  And  in  the  end,  even  submission  will  not 
save  them.  On  this  continent  there  is  going  to  be  no  more  slavery. 
That  is  settled  forever.  Not  even  voluntary  slavery  will  be  tolerated. 
Therefore,  unless  the  Southern  blacks  learn  to  defend  their  homes, 
women,  and  lives,  by  law  first  and  by  manly  force  in  extremity,  they 
will  be  exterminated  like  the  Tasmanian  and  Australian  blacks.  No 
other  race  has  ever  obtained  fair  play  from  the  Anglo-Saxon  without 
fighting  for  it,  or  being  ready  to  fight.  The  Southern  blacks  should 
make  no  mistake  about  the  issue  of  the  struggle  they  are  in.  They  are 
fighting  for  the  existence  of  their  race  ; and  they  cannot  fight  the 
Anglo-Saxon  by  lying  down  under  his  feet. 

For  such  remarks  as  the  above  he  w^as  accused  of  incit- 
ing the  negroes  by  incendiary  language,  one  Catholic  paper, 
telling  him,  “ It  is  neither  Catholic  nor  American  to  rouse 
the  negroes  of  the  South  to  open  and  futile  rebellion.”  He 
replied : 

True,  and  the  Pilot  has  not  done  so.  We  have  appealed  only  to  the 
great  Catholic  and  American  principle  of  resisting  wrong  and  outrage, 
of  protecting  life  and  home  and  the  honor  of  families  by  all  lawful 
means,  even  the  extremest,  when  nothing  else  remains  to  be  tried.  We 
shall  preach  this  always,  for  black  and  white,  North  and  South,  please 
God. 


342 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


In  his  championship  of  the  oppressed  he  was  far  from 
sympathizing  with  those  who  denounced  the  people  of 
the  South  indiscriminately,  and  he  was  utterly  opposed 
to  the  absurd  and  futile  policy  of  coercion  advocated  by 
the  supporters  of  the  Force  Bill.  He  wrote  : 

We  admire  the  splendid  qualities  of  Southern  white  men,  their 
bravery,  generosity,  patriotism,  and  chivalry.  We  are  not  blind  to  the 
tremendous  difficulty  in  the  way  of  their  social  peace.  We  regard  with 
conscientious  sympathy  their  political  burden,  made  so  much  heavier 
than  ours  of  the  North  by  the  negro  problem.  All  we  ask  of  them  or 
expect  of  them  is  that  they  will  approach  its  solution  in  a manner 
worthy  of  their  own  advantages  and  not  destructive  of  constitutional 
law  as  well  as  the  law  of  God. 

* * * * * * 

Our  Southern  white  brethren  must  see  that  if  they  are  permitted  to 
do  this  sort  of  thing  by  law,  our  Northern  aristocrats  may  some  time 
attempt  to  follow  suit,  and  make  a law  expelling  common  people, 
workmen,  etc.,  from  the  railway  cars,  hotels,  theaters,  or  wherever 
else  our  nobility  want  “ to  be  let  alone.” 

O’  Reilly  defended  the  oppressed  negroes,  as  he  had  de- 
fended the  oppressed  Indians,  as  sincerely  and  zealously  as 
he  had  all  his  life  defended  the  oppressed  of  his  own  race. 
It  was  morally  impossible  for  him  to  do  otherwise.  If  any- 
body remonstrated  with  him,  pointing  out  the  failings  or 
weaknesses  of  the  under-dog  in  the  fight,  he  would  say : 
“ Very  true  ; but  there  are  thousands  of  people  ready  to 
show  that  side  of  the  question,  to  one  who  is  enlisted  on 
the  other  side.”  He  could  see,  above  all  minor  questions, 
the  one  supreme  issue  of  right  against  wrong,  and  he 
would  not  desert  the  right  because  it  was  not  absolutely 
right,  to  condone  the  wrong  because  it  was  not  completely 
wrong.  He  bore  witness,  as  follows,  to  the  worth  of 
another  oppressed  race,  in  replying  to  three  questions  pro- 
pounded by  the  editor  of  the  American  Hebrew,  concern- 
ing the  prejudice  existing  among  Christians  against  their 
Jewish  brethren : 

In  answer  to  your  questions  : 

1.  I cannot  find  of  my  own  experience  the  reason  of  prejudice 
against  the  Jews  as  a race. 


343 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 

2.  I do  not  believe  that  the  cause  of  this  prejudice  is  the  religious 
instruction  in  Christian  schools,  because  the  most  prejudiced  are  least 
religious  or  Christian.  Part  of  the  prejudice  is  inherited  from  less  in- 
telligent times  ; part  comes  from  the  exclusiveness  of  the  Jews  as  a 
race,  and  the  largest  part  from  the  marvelous  success  of  the  Jewish 
race  in  business.  In  this  country,  I think,  the  anti-Jewish  prejudice  is 
not  at  all  religious.  From  personal  experience,  I should  say  it  was 
wholly  racial  and  commercial. 

3.  It  has  been  my  fortune  to  know,  long  and  intimately,  several 
Jewish  families  in  Boston  and  New  York,  and  many  individual  Jews 
during  my  lifetime.  Their  standard  of  conduct  is  the  same  as  Chris- 
tians, but  their  standard  of  home  life  and  all  its  relations  is  the  highest 
in  the  world.  I know  three  men  who  are  my  ideals  of  mercantile 
honor,  integrity,  and  business  character  : one  is  a Christian  and  two  are 
Jews. 

4.  I do  not  know  how  to  dispel  the  anti-Jewish  prejudice  except  by 
expressing  my  own  respect,  honor,  and  affection  for  the  greatest  race — 
taking  its  vicissitudes  and  its  achievements,  its  numbers  and  its  glo- 
ries— that  ever  existed. 

His  last  poem,  “ The  Useless  Ones,”  meaning  the  poets, 
was  published  in  the  Pilot  of  February  1 : 

Useless  ? Ay, — for  measure  : 

Roses  die, 

But  their  breath  gives  pleasure — 

God  knows  why  ! 

This  poem  had  been  read,  in  his  absence,  by  his  friend 
Benjamin  Kimball,  at  the  dinner  of  the  Papyrus  Club,  in 
December.  O’Reilly  dined  with  his  club  for  the  last  time 
on  February  1,  1890,  when  he  read  some  aphorisms  in 
rhyme,  of  which  two  have  been  preserved  by  Secretary 
Arthur  Macy : 

A man  may  wound  a brother  with  a hiss  ; 

A woman  stabs  a sister  with  a kiss. 


I judged  a man  by  his  speaking  ; 

His  nature  I could  not  tell  ; 

I judged  him  by  his  silence, 

And  then  I knew  him  well. 

On  Sunday  evening,  February  16,  he  made  his  last 
appearance  as  a lecturer  in  Boston,  his  subject  being 


344 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


“Irish  Music  and  Poetry.”  A large  audience  filled  the 
Boston  Theater.  He  never  appeared  to  better  advantage 
than  on  this  occasion. 

On  March  3,  he  set  out  on  an  extended  tour  to  the 
West,  accompanied  by  Dr.  John  F.  Young,  of  Boston,  one 
of  his  earliest  and  most  intimate  friends  in  America. 

On  the  following  evening,  Emmet’s  birthday,  he  lec- 
tured in  Syracuse,  N.  Y.,  on  “Irish  Music  and  Poetry,” 
before  an  audience  of  three  thousand,  and  was  entertained 
after  the  lecture  at  a banquet  by  the  Robert  Emmet  Society. 
He  repeated  his  discourse  at  Chicago  and  St.  Paul,  and 
was  again  feasted  by  the  principal  men  of  the  latter  city. 
Here  he  had  the  happiness  of  meeting  a man  to  whom  he 
owed  an  undying  gratitude,  Rev.  Patrick  McCabe,  the  good 
priest  who  had  enabled  him  to  escape  from  the  penal  col- 
ony in  Western  Australia.  They  had  met  several  years 
before,  when  Father  McCabe  first  came  to  America,  and  the 
reunion  was  joyful  for  both.  The  venerable  priest  remained 
two  days  as  O’Reilly’s  guest  in  St.  Paul,  and  parted  with 
the  understanding  that  the  latter  should  deliver  a lecture 
for  the  benefit  of  his  friend’s  parish  in  the  succeeding 
autumn. 

He  lectured  at  Minneapolis,  and  on  the  10th  of  March 
he  left  that  place  for  Butte  City,  Mont.  He  was  met  by  a 
delegation  of  the  leading  citizens  about  thirty  miles  before 
reaching  his  destination.  On  his- arrival  he  was  escorted  in 
a carriage,  by  a procession  of  brass  bands,  etc.,  to  the  hotel. 
The  Opera  House  was  packed  by  an  enthusiastic  audience, 
and  he  was  especially  requested  to  repeat  the  lecture  on  his 
return.  On  the  following  morning,  at  the  invitation  of 
Superintendent  Carroll,  he  donned  a miner’s  suit  and  went 
down  in  the  silver  and  copper  mines  owned  by  Marcus  Daly. 
He  dug  out  some  silver  ore,  which  he  carried  home  as  a 
souvenir  of  his  visit.  On  March  14,  he  lectured  before 
another  large  audience  in  Spokane  Falls,  and  was  again 
banqueted  (“malediction  on  banquets,”  he  had  observed  in 
an  early  part  of  his  diary ) by  the  leading  business  men  of 
the  city.  Two  days  later  he  lectured  in  Seattle  Armory. 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES.  345 

The  Seattle  Press  relates  the  following  amusing  incident  of 
the  lecture  : 

There  was  no  more  attentive  listener  among  the  throng  who  collected 
at  Armory  Hall  last  evening  to  hear  John  Boyle  O’Reilly,  than  an 
enthusiastic  Irishman  in  the  gallery.  Mr.  O’Reilly  was  in  the  midst  of 
his  graphic  description  of  Cromwell’s  conquests  when  this  Irishman  lost 
control  of  his  tongue  for  an  instant.  The  distinguished  lecturer  had 
told  about  Cromwell’s  marches  across  the  Isle  of  Green,  from  North  to 
South,  and  from  East  to  West.  The  Irishmen  had  all  been  driven  over 
the  Shannon,  and  the  land  thus  secured  was  parceled  out  to  the  troopers. 
While  the  men  had  been  driven  over  the  Shannon,  the  women  who 
would  marry  the  troopers  were  allowed  to  remain.  Looking  back  over 
the  records  the  speaker  wondered  what  had  become  of  these  troopers, 
who  have  dropped  out  of  sight. 

“ Where  have  they  gone  ? ” cried  he. 

“To  hell  !”  ejaculated  the  enthusiastic  Irishman,  leaning  on  the 
gallery  rail. 

It  took  Mr.  O’Reilly  some  little  time  to  get  attention,  while  he 
explained  that  he  thought  the  good  Irishwomen  who  married  the 
troopers  made  loyal  Irishmen  of  their  husbands. 

On  the  17th,  St.  Patrick’s  Day,  he  arrived  at  Tacoma 
and  was  at  once  obliged  to  take  part  in  the  procession, 
occupying  an  open  barouche  drawn  by  four  white 
horses.  The  Tacoma  Theater  was  packed  to  the  roof  at  his 
lecture  that  evening,  the  very  rafters  being  occupied.  A 
great  banquet,  attended  literally  by  scores  of  Irish- Ameri- 
can millionaires,  was  given  by  the  Ancient  Order  of  Hibern- 
ians after  the  lecture,  and  lasted  until  four  o’  clock  in  the 
morning.  On  the  following  evening  he  lectured  at  the 
Opera  House  in  Portland,  Ore.,  the  stage  being  occupied 
by  leading  citizens  of  the  State,  including  the  Gov- 
ernor, ex-Governor,  Maj.-Gen.  Gibbon,  commanding  the 
United  States  forces  on  the  Pacific  Coast,  Archbishop 
Gross,  Major  Burke,  and  a number  of  rich  men  whose 
aggregate  wealth,  as  a fellow-citizen  proudly  remarked, 
represented  $200,000,000.  O’Reilly’s  reception  was  one  of 
which  any  man  might  have  been  proud  ; even  the  steamer 
Oregon , which  was  to  carry  him  to  San  Francisco, 
waited  for  him  an  hour  and  a half  beyond  its  time  of  sailing. 


346 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’UEILLY. 


During  this  voyage  he  twice  mentions  in  his  diary,  with 
evident  satisfaction, — “great  rest.” 

Owing  to  some  mismanagement,  his  tour  in  California 
was  not  successful.  The  lectures  had  not  been  advertised, 
and  his  audiences  were  small  in  San  Francisco,  Oakland, 
and  Sacramento.  From  Sacramento  he  took  train  for 
Portland,  Ore.  He  delivered  only  two  lectures  on  his 
return  trip,  one  at  Tacoma,  March  28,  and  another  at  Butte 
City,  on  the  30th,  repeating  his  first  successes,  and  going 
home  full  of  admiration  for  the  natural  resources  and 
enterprising  population  of  the  great  Northwest.  He  had 
accomplished  the  chief  object  of  his  visit,  that  of  seeing  for 
himself  the  great  possibilities  of  a region  toward  which  he 
hoped  to  divert  the  stream  of  Irish- American  emigration. 
He  saw  how  the  energetic  and  honest  men  of  his  race, 
starting  with  no  capital  but  their  native  “bone  and  sinew 
and  brain,”  had  prospered  beyond  their  wildest  dreams  in 
the  new,  fair  land,  whose  balmy  climate  resembled  that  of 
their  birthplace.  The  same  men,  left  stranded  amid  the 
poverty  and  temptations  of  an  Eastern  city,  might  have 
remained  poor  and  hopeless  to  the  end,  for  lack  of  the 
opportunity  which  was  so  easily  found  in  the  new  Western 
States.  He  never  tired  of  singing  the  praises  of  that 
region,  and  had  intended  to  make  another  journey  to  the 
Pacific  Coast  in  the  following  year. 

He  returned  to  Boston  on  April  5.  Shortly  afterward,  in 
his  paper,  he  wrote  of  the  Northwest,  and  of  the  State  of 
Washington  in  particular : 

That  matchless  country,  as  large  as  an  empire,  and  filled  with  all 
kinds  of  natural  wealth,  contains  only  about  as  many  people  as  the  City 
of  Boston.  It  has  all  the  political  machinery  of  a State  ; but  no  one 
there  dreams  of  turning  the  wheels  of  political  machinery  for  a living. 
Men  there  are  all  engaged  in  active  and  profitable  employments. 
Washington  will  have  two  millions  of  people  in  fifteen  years,  and  the 
few  hundred  thousand  who  are  there  now  have  all  they  can  do  to  pre- 
pare for  the  coming  flood.  Unlike  California  in  1849,  this  grand  State 
is  drawing  from  a population  of  seventy  millions,  and  the  railroads  are 
already  opened  for  the  human  freight.  It  took  California  forty  years 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES.  347 

to  become  an  Empire  State  ; it  will  take  Washington  about  fifteen  years 
from  1890. 

Sad  as  it  is  to  write  of  this  or  that  as  his  last  word  or 
deed,  there  is  a mournful  pleasure  for  those  who  knew  and 
loved  him  in  remembering  that  every  last  word  and  deed 
were  characteristic  of  his  great  nature.  Politically  he  was 
a Democrat  to  the  last.  ‘ ‘ Is  the  Pilot  a Democratic  paper  % ’ ’ 
asked  a correspondent.  He  replied  in  the  issue  of  May  31, 
and  his  answer  is  worth  preserving  for  its  exposition  of  the 
truest  Democratic  doctrine  : 

The  Pilot  is  a Democratic  paper.  We  say  so  without  reservation, 
exclusion,  or  exception. 

The  principles  of  Democracy  as  laid  down  by  Jefferson  are  to  us  the 
changeless  basis  of  sound  politics  and  healthy  republicanism.  We  are 
not  Democratic  simply  as  being  partisan  ; but  we  are  partisan  because 
we  are  Democratic.  We  would  abide  by  Jeffersonian  Democracy  if 
there  were  no  Democratic  party  in  existence. 

* % * * * * 

Democracy  means  to  us  the  least  government  for  the  people,  instead 
of  more  or  most. 

It  means  that  every  atom  of  paternal  power  not  needed  for  the  safety 
of  the  Union  and  the  intercourse  of  the  population  should  be  taken  from 
the  Federal  Government  and  kept  and  guarded  by  the  States  and  the 
people. 

It  means  the  spreading  and  preserving  of  doubt,  distrust,  and  dislike 
of  all  sumptuary  and  impertinent  laws. 

It  means  that  law  shall  only  be  drawn  at  disorder,  and  that  all  affairs 
that  can  be  managed  without  disorder  should  be  managed  without  law. 

It  means  that  all  laws  not  called  for  by  public  disorder  are  an 
offense,  a nuisance,  and  a danger. 

It  means  watchfulness  against  Federal  legislation  for  such  State 
questions  as  education,  temperance,  irrigation,  and  all  other  questions 
that  may  arise  and  are  sure  to  arise  in  the  future. 

It  means  the  teaching  of  absolute  trust  in  the  people  of  the  States  to 
understand  and  provide  for  their  own  interests. 

It  means  home  rule  in  every  community  right  through  our  system, 
from  the  township  up  to  the  State  Legislature  ; and  above  that,  utter 
loyalty  to  the  Union. 

It  means  antagonism  to  all  men,  classes  and  parties  that  throw  dis- 
trust and  discredit  on  the  working  or  common  people,  and  who  insinu- 
ate or  declare  that  there  is  a higher,  nobler,  or  safer  patriotism  among 


348  JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 

the  wealthy  and  more  book-learned  classes  than  the  common  people 
possess  or  appreciate. 

It  means  that  Democratic  principles  must  be  followed  by  individual 
citizens  as  well  as  by  the  aggregated  party,  that  they  must  oppose  the 
petty  boss  in  their  own  caucuses,  and  the  arrogant  majority  in  their 
own  town,  when  these  attempt  to  coerce  the  rights  of  the  masses  or 
change  the  self-governing  principle  of  the  free  town. 

On  June  28,  he  had  this  to  say  in  defense  of  the  Ameri- 
can negro,  whose  social  rights  were  and  are  ignored  in  the 
North,  as  his  political  rights  have  been  denied  in  the 
South  : 

Clement  Garnett  Morgan,  the  colored  graduate  of  Harvard,  who 
delivered  the  class  oration  last  week,  held  his  own  manfully.  His  ora- 
tion was  as  good  as  the  average  and  very  like  all  the  others,  just  as 
Clement  Garnett  Morgan  is  like  all  other  Harvard  graduates,  except  in 
the  color  of  his  skin.  Men  who  have  traveled  and  observed  and 
reflected  know  that  all  men  are  like  each  other  ; that  the  same  key- 
board touches  all  their  notes  ; that  a black,  red,  yellow  or  white  skin 
has  no  deeper  significance;  and  that  there  is  no  greater  difference 
between  “ races  ” than  between  individuals  of  the  same  race.  But  for 
all  that,  the  position  of  Clement  Garnett  Morgan  is  an  unhappy  one  ; 
for  the  average  American  person  calling  himself  an  “ Anglo-Sa^on  ” is 
the  most  mulish  of  all  men  in  claiming  superiority  for  his  own  little 
part  of  the  human  family.  To  him  the  black  man  is  an  inferior,  as  the 
brown  man  is  to  his  British  relative  in  India.  If  he  can  throttle  a man 
and  rob  his  house,  that  proves  that  he  was  created  to  “ govern  ” him. 
This  colored  boy  was  elected  class  orator  in  Harvard  partly  through 
class  dissensions  and  partly  through  the  noble  instincts  of  youth  still 
“ uncorrected  ” by  society  and  experience.  When  his  oration  was 
ended,  and  Morgan  stepped  out  of  Harvard  and  into  the  world,  lie 
ceased  to  be  a “ gentleman  ” and  an  equal,  and  at  one  descent  fell  to 
the  level  of  ‘ ‘ the  nigger,  ” who  could  never  be  invited  to  one’s  house  or 
proposed  at  one’s  club,  who  would  be  refused  a room  at  nearly  all  lead- 
ing hotels,  even  in  the  North,  and  who  would  not  be  tolerated  even  in 
church  in  the  half-empty  pew  of  polite  worshipers.  Clement  Garnett 
Morgan  has  trials  and  heart-burnings  before  him,  and  we  wish  him 
strength  and  wisdom  to  bear  them.  We  trust  that  he,  who  spoke  so  well 
of  “ vicarious  suffering  ” in  his  oration  last  week  will  feel,  that  by  his 
superior  mental  training  he  is  called  upon  not  to  evade  but  to  take  the 
blow  meant  for  his  colored  brethren.  Few  men  have  so  great  a cause 
nowadays  as  this  educated  negro  representing  ten  millions  ostracized 
Americans.  There  are  dignity  and  power  in  his  hand  if  he  be  true  to 
himself,  which  consists  in  being  true  to  his  people.  Let  no  weak  nerve 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


349 


draw  him  for  an  instant  from  their  loving  association.  Their  virtues 
are  his  own ; let  him  labor  to  reduce  their  faults.  The  Anglo-Saxon 
will  accept  him  only  when  he  has  proved  his  strength  in  the  mass. 
The  A.  S.  will  not  accept  colored  individuals,  simply  because  he  need 
not.  Negro  strength  is  in  negro  unity ; and  it  must  so  continue  till  the 
crust  of  white  pride,  prejudice,  and  ignorance  is  broken,  torn  off,  and 
trampled  into  dust  forever.  Then,  and  not  till  then,  Clement  Garnett 
Morgan  can  be  a cosmopolitan.  Until  then  he  must  be  a faithful,  for- 
bearing, helpful,  and  self-respecting  negro. 

The  Catholic  Congress  held  in  Baltimore,  in  November, 
1889,  had  appointed  a committee  on  future  congresses, 
which  assembled  at  the  Parker  House,  Boston,  on  J uly  25. 
It  was  composed  as  follows  : James  H.  Dormer,  Buffalo, 
N.  Y. ; Daniel  Dougherty,  New  York  ; Edmund  F.  Dunne, 
San  Antonio,  Fla.;  Patrick  Farrelly,  New  York;  M.  D. 
Fansler,  Fort  Wayne,  Ind.;  M.  J.  Harson,  Providence, 
R.  I.;  John  D.  Keily,  Jr.,  Brooklyn;  Wm.  L.  Kelly,  St. 
Paul,  Minn.;  M.  W.  O’Brien,  Detroit,  Mich.;  Hon.  Morgan 
J.  O’Brien,  New  York;  Wm.  J.  Onahan,  Chicago;  John 
Boyle  O’Reilly,  Boston  ; Thomas  J.  Semmes,  New  Orleans ; 
H.  J.  Spaunliorst,  St.  Louis. 

The  following  Church  dignitaries  were  also  present : 
Archbishops  Ireland,  of  St.  Paul ; Riordan,  of  San  Fran- 
cisco ; Janssens,  of  New  Orleans  ; and  Elder,  of  Cincin- 
nati ; and  Bishops  Foley,  Maes,  and  Spalding,  together 
witlrFatlier  Montgomery,  of  California. 

“ On  the  day  previous  to  the  meeting,”  says  Mr.  T.  B. 
Fitz,  President  of  the  Catholic  Union,  of  Boston,  who  was 
present,  “ Mr.  O’Reilly  called  at  the  archepiscopal  resi- 
dence to  pay  his  respects  to  His  Eminence  Cardinal  Gib- 
bons, who  received  him  with  great  cordiality  and  welcome. 
Referring  to  the  meeting  to  be  held  the  following  day,  at 
which  several  bishops  and  archbishops,  with  prominent 
laymen,  were  to  take  part,  Mr.  O’Reilly  stated  to  him 
substantially  the  views  embodied  in  his  letter  regarding 
Catholic  conventions.  ‘If,’  said  he,  ‘these  conventions 
should  confine  their  papers  and  discussions  to  subjects 
coming  legitimately  under  the  jurisdiction  of  laymen,  and 
aim  to  remedy  certain  local  disadvantages  under  which  we 


350 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


labor  in  this  country,  he  would  certainly  approve  of  them. 
In  this  connection  might  be  considered,’  he  said,  4 the 
great  question  of  colonization,  whereby  our  people  might 
be,  to  a great  extent,  diverted  from  cities  and  thickly 
populated  centers,  to  seek  homes  for  themselves  and  their 
families  in  agricultural  districts. 

44  4 Aiding  and  directing  emigrants,  especially  emigrant 
girls — strangers  in  a strange  land — is  another  matter,’  he 
said,  4 which  appealed  to  our  race  and  humanity  to  con- 
sider and  amend  present  conditions.  The  encouragement 
of  temperance,  a careful  analysis  of  the  labor  problem, 
and  such  like  practical  questions,  would  offer  abundant 
matter  and  range  for  profitable  discussion.’ 

44  The  Cardinal  expressed  great  interest  in  hearing  Mr. 
O’Reilly’s  views  and  his  hearty  sympathy  with  them.  The 
position  taken  by  Archbishop  Ireland,  Archbishop  Rior- 
dan,  Bishop  Spalding,  and  other  bishops,  besides  the 
majority  of  the  laymen  present  the  next  day  at  the 
meeting,  were  equally  forcible  in  their  approval  of  Mr. 
O’Reilly’s  views.  In  fact,  it  is  fair  to  assume,  that  from 
the  favor  with  which  his  suggestions  were  received  by  the 
committee  they  will  have  much  weight  in  determining  the 
scope  and  plan  of  work  of  the  next  Catholic  Congress, 
should  such  be  held.” 

The  following  letter  to  the  same  gentleman  fully  ex- 
presses the  writer’s  views  on  the  subject  of  Catholic  con- 
gresses : 

July  14,  1890. 

Dear  Mr.  Fitz  : 

As  you  will  see  by  the  inclosed  letter,  the  committee  on  holding 
another  National  Convention  of  Catholics  will  hold  their  meeting  in 
Boston  on  the  25th  inst.  The  members,  should  they  attend,  are  a dis- 
tinguished body  of  men,  and  I wish  you  would  appoint  a day  when  we 
might,  with  a few  others,  meet  and  talk  over  the  manner  of  their 
reception— whether  to  give  them  a public  notice  or  not. 

I am  a member  of  the  committee,  but  I have  almost  decided  to 
resign  after  giving  my  reasons  to  the  committee.  I am  convinced  that 
National  Conventions  of  citizens  called  as  Catholics,  or  as  Baptists, 
Methodists,  etc.,  are  uncalled  for,  and  in  the  case  of  the  Catholics 
particularly  are  apt  to  be  injurious  rather  than  beneficial.  The  last 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


351 


one  may  be  taken  as  a specimen  of  what  they  are  all  to  be — an  audience 
of  representative  men  listening  to  a series  of  papers  that  might  just  as 
well  be  published  in  magazines  or  papers,  where  they  would  reach  a 
greater  number. 

For  such  a benefit  to  awaken  the  suspicions  and  doubts  of  our  Prot- 
estant fellow-citizens,  who  are  constantly  of  opinion  that  we  Catholics 
are  obeying  “ the  orders  of  Rome,”  etc.,  is  a questionable  policy.  If 
we  had  reason,  as  the  German  Catholics  have  had,  to  protest  against 
national  legislation,  we  should  be  only  doing  our  duty  in  holding 
national  conventions.  But  we  have  no  reason  of  this  kind,  nor  of  any 
kind,  that  I can  see.  I do  not  believe  that  the  judgment  of  the  Catho- 
lics of  the  country  advises  the  project  of  formulating  any  distinct 
Catholic  policy  in  America. 

For  one, — and  one  called  on  to  think  for  the  best  interests  of  the 
many, — I regard  these  conventions  of  Catholic  laymen  as  unnecessary, 
prejudicial,  and  imprudent,  and  I shall  not  take  part  in  their  arrange- 
ment or  progress. 

Nevertheless,  for  the  courteous  treatment  of  the  committee  I shall 
be  zealous  and  anxious ; and  if  you  will  appoint  a day  when  a few  of 
us  can  lunch  together  and  talk  it  over,  I shall  be  much  obliged. 

I am,  yours  very  truly, 

J.  B.  O’Reilly. 

On  July  17,  another  distinguished  Irish- American  poet 
and  orator,  Rev.  Henry  Bernard  Carpenter,  died  suddenly 
at  Sorrento,  Me.  He  was  fifty  years  old  and  had  lived 
sixteen  years  in  the  United  States.  A great  scholar,  a fine 
poet,  and  a man  of  charming  personality,  he  had  been  for 
years  one  of  the  most  popular  members  of  the  Papyrus  and 
St.  Botolph  clubs.  When  another  Irish- American  poet 
and  Papyrus  man,  Dr.  Robert  Dwyer  Joyce,  went  home  to 
Ireland  to  die,  in  1883,  Mr.  Carpenter  wrote  for  the  Pilot 
a beautiful  farewell  poem,  entitled  “Vive  Valeque.” 
0’  Reilly,  himself  suffering  from  overmuch  care  and  work, 
was  deeply  moved  by  the  death  of  the  simple-minded,  gen- 
erous, and  brilliant  Irish  poet  and  orator,  whom  he  was  so 
soon  to  follow. 

Another  last  characteristic  work  was  his  contribution  of 
a long  article  to  the  Boston  Evening  Traveler , in  July*  on 
“ Canoes  and  Boats.”  In  it  he  extolled  the  merits  of  his 
favorite  craft  and  condemned  the  rowboat,  of  which  he 
said,  “ There  is  no  good  reason  why  another  should  ever 


352 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


be  built,  except  for  suicide.”  After  summing  up  the 
many  pleasures  and  benefits  to  be  derived  from  the  sport, 
he  says : 

If  this  paper  has  a purpose  other  than  mere  relation,  it  is  to  encour- 
age the  exercise  of  canoeing  and  to  express  my  belief  that  there  is  no 
rest  so  complete  and  no  play  so  refreshing  as  that  wnich  brings  us  face 
to  face  with  primitive  nature.  It  is  good  to  get  away  from  the  customs 
and  conventionalities  of  city  life  to  the  sound  of  running  water  and 
rustling  leaves  and  birds ; to  be  free  again  as  a boy,  enjoying  what  the 
boy  loves  ; to  depend  on  one’s  self  for  all  that  is  needed  to  make  the  day 
delightful ; to  realize  the  truth  that  natural  pleasures  are  not  limited  to 
a few  years  of  childhood,  but  that  all  the  joys  of  childhood  are  joys  for 
life  if  not  incrusted  by  the  petty  artificialities  of  business  and  society, 
and  the  still  more  deplorable  and  deadening  assumption  of  solemn  wis- 
dom that  is  supposed  to  be  “ serious  ” and  “ respectable.” 

His  last  editorial  utterance,  in  the  Pilot  of  August  9, 
was  an  appeal  to  two  eminent  friends  of  the  Irish  cause, 
one  of  whom  had  made  certain  injurious  reflections  upon 
the  other.  Commenting  on  the  latter’s  defense,  O’Reilly 
wrote  : 

We  notice  the  defense  just  to  remark  that  it  was  as  unnecessary  as 
the  attack  was  uncalled  for.  Therefore,  both  will  pass  with  slight  pub- 
lic notice.  The  only  surprising  thing  about  such  episodes  is  the  readi- 
ness with  which  many  leading  Irishmen,  heated  in  a personal  contro- 
versy, will  ascribe  the  most  dishonorable  motives  to  their  opponents. 

This  is  unworthy  men  like and . The  public  will  not 

believe  either  that  the  other  is  a bad  man ; they  show  the  worst  thing 
about  themselves  in  the  making  of  such  charges  and  insinuations. 

On  Wednesday,  August  6,  a very  sultry  day,  lie  at- 
tended the  games  of  the  National  Irish  Athletic  Associa- 
tion at  Oak  Island  Grove,  Revere  Beach,  acting  as  judge 
and  referee  in  the  contests.  About  four  thousand  people 
were  present  on  the  crowded  grounds.  The  day  was  ex- 
ceedingly warm,  and  O’Reilly  was  compelled  to  leave  the 
ground,  in  almost  a fainting  condition,  before  the  sports 
were  over. 

As  he  was  a member  on  the  committee  of  reception  for 
the  Grand  Army  demonstration  which  was  to  take  place  in 
Boston  the  following  week,  he  had  made  arrangements  to 
spend  some  nights  at  a hotel  in  the  city.  On  Wednesday 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


353 


evening  lie  visited  the  St.  Botolph  Club  for  an  hour  or 
two.  Returning  to  his  hotel  after  midnight,  in  company 
with  a friend,  an  incident  occurred,  slight  in  itself,  but  thor- 
oughly characteristic  of  the  man.  As  he  was  walking  up 
Boylston  Street,  engaged  in  pleasant  conversation  with  his 
friend,  his  quick  eye  suddenly  espied  an  unlovely  object— 
a woman — poor,  old,  dirty,  and  drunken — huddled  in  the 
doorway  of  a house.  Dropping  his  friend’s  arm,  he 
stooped  down  to  the  repulsive  bundle  of  misery,  laid  his 
strong  hand  on  her  shoulder,  raised  her  to  her  feet,  with 
a word  of  kindness,  arranged  her  tattered  shawl  about  her, 
and,  gently  as  a son  might  have  spoken  to  his  mother, 
persuaded  her  to  go  home,  and  sent  her  on  her  way. 

It  was  a little  thing  to  do,  but  it  showed  a great  heart 
in  the  doer.  Nine  men  out  of  ten  would  have  passed  the 
unfortunate  with  a look  of  pity  or  of  scorn.  Ninety-nine 
gentlemen  out  of  a hundred,  going  home  from  their  club, 
would  have  given  not  a thought  to  the  outcast.  But  Boyle 
O’Reilly,  whether  he  wore  the  dress-coat  or  the  convict 
suit,  never  for  one  instant  forgot  his  kinship  with  all  the 
poor  and  lowly  and  unfortunate  of  earth. 

On  Friday  and  Saturday  forenoon  he  was  at  his  office 
attending  to  his  regular  duties,  but  showing  the  effects  of 
insomnia. 

The  great  procession  of  the  Grand  Army  veterans  was 
to  pass  the  Pilot  building  on  the  following  Tuesday.  Be- 
fore leaving  the  city  for  Hull  on  Saturday  afternoon  he 
gave  instructions,  with  his  usual  thoughtful  care,  that  the 
windows  of  the  office  should  be  reserved  for  the  printers 
and  other  employees  of  the  paper.  In  order  that  they 
might  have  undisturbed  possession,  he  had  engaged  a win- 
dow in  another  part  of  the  city  for  himself  and  family.  It 
was  his  intention  to  make  the  following  number  of  the 
Pilot  a Grand  Army  one.  He  was  full  of  interest  in  the 
work  when  he  left  his  office  to  take  the  half-past  two 
o’clock  boat  for  Hull  that  afternoon. 

Next  morning  the  city  and  country  were  startled  with 
the  awful  news  that  John  Boyle  O’Reilly  was  dead  ! 


CHAPTER  XIX. 


Profound  Sorrow  of  the  Nation  and  of  the  Irish  People— Tributes  of 
Respect  to  his  Memory — ‘ ‘ A Loss  to  the  Country,  to  the  Church, 
and  to  Humanity  in  General” — Remarkable  Funeral  Honors— 
Resolutions  of  National  and  Catholic  Societies — The  Papyrus  Club 
and  the  Grand  Army  of  the  Republic — “ The  Truest  of  all  the  True 
is  Dead.” 

THE  story  of  his  last  day  on  earth  is  briefly  told.  He 
was  met  on  the  arrival  of  the  boat  at  Hull  by  his 
youngest  daughter,  whom  he  accompanied  to  his  cottage, 
romping  and  laughing  with  her  in  one  of  his  cheeriest 
moods.  He  spent  the  afternoon  and  evening  with  his 
family,  and  late  at  night  walked  with  his  brother-in-law, 
Mr.  John  R.  Murphy,  over  to  the  Hotel  Pemberton,  hop- 
ing that  the  exercise  might  bring  on  fatigue  and  the  sleep 
which  he  so  much  needed. 

On  leaving  Mr.  Murphy,  he  said,  “ Be  sure  and  be  over 
early  in  the  morning,  Jack,  so  that  you  can  go  with  me  and 
the  children  to  Mass  at  Nantasket.” 

Mrs.  O’  Reilly,  who  had  been  an  invalid  for  years,  and 
the  constant  charge  of  her  kind  and  thoughtful  husband, 
had  been  confined  to  her  room  for  the  previous  two  days 
with  a serious  attack  of  illness,  and  was  in  the  care  of  Dr. 
Litchfield.  A little  before  twelve  o’clock  she  called  her 
husband,  who  was  reading  and  smoking  in  the  family  sitting- 
room  below,  to  ask  him  to  get  more  medicine  for  her  from 
Dr.  Litchfield,  as  she  felt  very  ill  and  feverish.  Dr.  Litch- 
field had  already  left  her  medicine  which  had  benefited  her, 
but  it  was  all  gone. 

Mr.  O’  Reilly  returned  with  the  doctor,  who  prescribed 

354 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


355 


for  Mrs.  0’  Reilly.  As  the  medicine  had  no  effect,  her  hus- 
band thought  one  dose  might  have  been  insufficient,  as  he 
had  accidentally  spilled  a portion  of  it.  He  therefore  made 
a second  visit  to  the  doctor,  who,  on  renewing  the  prescrip- 
tion, said,  “ Mr.  O’Reilly,  you  should  take  something  your- 
self,” as  he  knew  that  the  latter  was  also  suffering  from 
insomnia. 

What  occurred  thereafter  is  not  known  to  anybody,  but 
all  the  circumstances  point  to  the  fact  that  O’Reilly,  unable 
to  go  to  sleep,  after  administering  the  mixture  to  his  wife, 
drank  a quantity  of  some  sleeping  potion,  of  which  there 
were  several  kinds  in  her  medicine  closet. 

Mrs.  O’  Reilly  woke  up  after  a short  sleep,  fancying  that 
she  had  heard  some  one  call  her.  She  noticed  her  hus- 
band’s absence  and  perceived  a light  in  the  tower-room,  ad- 
joining her  bedroom.  Arising  and  entering  the  room,  she 
found  her  husband,  sitting  on  a couch,  reading  and  smok- 
ing. She  spoke  to  him  and  insisted  on  his  retiring.  He 
answered  her  quite  collectedly  and  said,  “Yes,  Mamsie  dear, 
(a  pet  name  of  hers)  I have  taken  some  of  your  sleeping 
medicine.  I feel  tired  now,  and  if  you  will  let  me  lie  down 
on  that  couch  (where  Mrs.  O’  Reilly  had  seated  herself  on 
entering  the  room)  I will  go  to  sleep  right  away.” 

As  he  lay  down,  Mrs.  O’Reilly  noticed  an  unusually 
pallid  look  on  his  face,  and  a sudden  strange  drowsiness 
come  over  him.  Never  suspecting  anything  serious  she 
spoke  to  him  again,  and  tried  to  rouse  him,  but  the  only 
answer  she  received  was  an  inarticulate,  “Yes,  my  love! 
Yes,  my  love  ! ” 

Becoming  strangely  alarmed  she  aroused  her  daughter 
Bessie  and  sent  her  hurriedly  for  Dr.  Litchfield.  It  was 
then  about  four  o’clock.  The  doctor  worked  for  about 
an  hour  trying  to  revive  him,  but  in  vain.  He  died  at  ten 
minutes  to  five  o’clock.  Dr.  Litchfield  and  a consulting 
physician,  who  had  been  summoned  at  the  same  time,  rec- 
ognized that  death  had  been  caused  by  accidental  poisoning. 
The  medicine  which  had  been  ordered  for  Mrs.  O’Reilly, 
evidently  was  not  that  taken  by  her  husband,  as  it  contained 


356 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


no  chloral.  The  supposition  is  that  he  had  taken  some  of 
her  other  sleeping  medicines  which  did  contain  that  drug, 
and  that  he  was  ignorant  of  the  quantity  of  the  latter  which 
might  be  taken  with  safety.  The  bottles  in  the  medicine 
closet  were  found  disturbed.  Part  of  the  medicine  which 
Dr.  Litchfield  had  ordered  for  Mrs.  O'Reilly  was  not  put 
up  by  him,  but  was  some  which  was  already  in  the  house. 
In  prescribing  its  use  Dr.  Litchfield  said  : “Use  that  medi- 
cine which  you  have,  or  which  I saw  at  your  house  when  I 
called  yesterday.” 

The  fatal  error  doubtless  occurred  when  Mr.  O’Reilly 
went  to  the  closet  to  get  the  medicine  for  his  wife. 

The  sad  news  reached  Boston  early  on  Sunday  morning, 
and  was  bulletined  in  front  of  the  newspaper  offices  and 
announced  at  the  services  in  some  of  the  Catholic  churches 
of  the  city,  awaking  profound  sorrow  wherever  it  was  re- 
ceived. 

Mrs.  O’  Reilly  was  prostrated  with  grief  and  was  removed 
with  her  younger  daughters  to  the  home  of  her  mother. 
The  eldest  daughter,  with  her  uncle,  Mr.  Murphy,  accom- 
panied the  body  of  her  father  on  the  steamer  to  Boston, 
whence,  early  in  the  afternoon,  the  remains  were  borne  to 
his  late  home  in  Charlestown. 

It  is  the  simplest  of  truths  to  say  that  the  death  of  no 
private  citizen  in  America,  or  perhaps  in  the  world,  could 
have  caused  such  genuine  and  widespread  grief  as  followed 
that  of  John  Boyle  O’Reilly.  The  sorrow  was  not  confined 
to  people  of  his  own  race  or  faith.  Americans  of  every  race 
appreciated  the  patriotic  spirit  of  this  adopted  citizen,  and 
recognized  that  in  his  death  the  country  had  lost  not  only 
a man  of  rare  genius,  but  a leader  whose  counsels  were  as 
wise  as  his  loyalty  was  fervent  and  unfaltering. 

During  the  days  and  weeks  following  his  death,  messages 
of  sympathy  and  regret  came  pouring  in,  literally  in 
thousands.  Cardinal  Gibbons,  the  head  of  the  Catholic 
Church  in  America,  said,  on  hearing  the  news  : 

It  is  a public  calamity — not  only  a loss  to  the  country,  but  a loss  to 
the  Church,  and  to  humanity  in  general. 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


357 


Hundreds  of  prelates  and  priests  echoed  the  sentiment 
throughout  the  country.  I can  select  but  a few  from  the 
multitude  of  messages  received  at  that  time.  Ex-President 
Cleveland  wrote  from 

Marion,  Mass.,  August  13. 

I have  heard  with  sincere  regret  that  John  Boyle  O’Reilly  is  dead.  I 
regarded  him  as  a strong  and  able  man,  entirely  devoted  to  any  cause 
he  espoused,  unselfish  in  his  activity,  true  and  warm  in  his  friend- 
ship, and  patriotic  in  his  enthusiasm. 

Senator  Hoar,  of  Massachusetts,  telegraphed  to  Mrs. 
O’Reilly: 

Washington,  D.  C.,  August  12. 

Accept  my  profound  sympathy  in  your  great  loss  and  the  great 
public  loss.  Your  husband  combined,  as  no  other  man,  some  of  the 
noblest  qualities  of  the  Irishman  and  the  American. 

His  parish  priest,  who  best  knew  his  spiritual  side, 
Rev.  J.  W.  McMahon  of  St.  Mary’s  Church,  Charlestown, 
said  : 

I have  always  had  a great  admiration  for  the  man  ever  since  he 
came  to  my  parish  as  a member.  As  for  his  career  before  that  time 
that,  too,  commands  my  respect  and  admiration.  He  was  a single- 
minded,  open-hearted  man — a man  who  loved  liberty  for  itself,  and 
who  wished  everybody  to  have  a fair  chance. 

He  was  a good  husband,  a good  father,  a good  Catholic  and  a good 
man. 

Generous  praise  for  his  life’s  work  and  sincere  grief  for 
his  untimely  death  were  bestowed  by  the  fellow-authors 
who  had  known  and  loved  him.  The  venerable  Dr.  Oliver 
Wendell  Holmes  wrote : 

Beverly  Farms,  Mass.,  August  12. 

John  Boyle  O’Reilly  was  a man  of  heroic  mold  and  nature  ; brave, 
adventurous,  patriotic,  enthusiastic,  with  the  perfervidum  ingenium , 
which  belongs  quite  as  much  to  the  Irish  as  to  the  Scotch.  We  have 
been  proud  of  him  as  an  adopted  citizen,  feeling  always  that  his  native 
land  could  ill  spare  so  noble  a son.  His  poems  show  what  he  might 
have  been  had  he  devoted  himself  to  letters.  His  higher  claim  is  that 
he  was  a true  and  courageous  lover  of  his  country  and  of  his  fellow- 
men. 


358 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 

Among  the  many  literary  men  who  owed  gratitude  to 
O’  Reilly  was  George  Parsons  Lathrop,  who  wrote  from 

New  London,  Conn.,  August  12. 

Except  for  the  loss  of  my  father,  and  that  of  my  own  and  only  son, 
I have  never  suffered  one  more  bitter  than  that  inflicted  by  the  death 
of  my  dear  and  noble  and  most  beloved  Boyle  O’Reilly.  He  is  a great 
rock  torn  out  of  the  foundations  of  my  life.  Nothing  will  ever  replace 
that  powerful  prop,  that  magnificent  buttress.  I wish  we  could  make 
all  the  people  in  the  world  stand  still  and  think  and  feel  about  this 
rare,  great,  exquisite-souled  man  until  they  should  fully  comprehend 
him. 

Boyle  was  the  greatest  man,  the  finest  heart  and  soul  I knew  in 
Boston,  and  my  most  dear  friend. 

It  would  require  a larger  volume  even  than  this  to  con- 
tain all  of  the  tributes  of  praise  given  to  the  dead  journal- 
ist by  the  newspapers  of  the  United  States,  Canada, 
Australia,  Ireland,  and  England  itself.  Never  was  the 
worth  of  a great  man  so  generally  recognized.  Lines  of 
race,  and  creed,  and  party  were  forgotten  when  men  wrote 
of  this  man,  whose  broad  charity  had  known  no  such  dis- 
tinctions. 

Universal  as  was  the  grief  at  his  loss,  it  was  felt  most 
keenly  by  the  people  of  his  own  race  in  America,  for  whose 
welfare  he  had  wrought  throughout  his  whole  noble  life. 
The  Irish  societies  in  all  parts  of  the  country  held  memo- 
rial meetings  and  passed  resolutions  of  regret  and  condo- 
lence. 

In  the  land  of  his  birth  he  was  mourned  as  deeply  as  in 
that  of  his  adoption.  A meeting  of  the  Parnellite  members 
was  held  in  the  House  of  Commons  on  August  11,  Michael 
Davitt,  T.  P.  O’Connor,  Professor  Stuart,  and  others  tes- 
tifying to  the  great  services  of  the  dead  patriot  in  Ireland’s 
cause.  At  the  National  League  meeting  in  Dublin  on  the 
following  day,  John  D-illon  briefly  recounted  the  life  and 
achievements  of  his  friend  and  fellow  patriot,  and  told  how 
he  himself  had  endeavored  to  obtain  O’Reilly’s  consent  to 
apply  to  the  Government  for  permission  to  revisit  his  native 
land.  O’Reilly  refused  to  grant  that  consent;  “and,” 


359 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 

said  Mr.  Dillon,  “ I know  that  in  my  own  case  and  in  that 
of  Mr.  Parnell  and  many  of  our  friends  we  over  and  over 
again  urged  on  O’Reilly,  in  the  happier  times  which  seemed 
to  be  about  to  dawn  upon  Ireland,  that  he  should  allow  us 
to  take  steps  and  measures  to  secure  for  him  permission  to 
revisit  his  native  land.  And  John  Boyle  O’Reilly,  so 
strong  was  his  feeling  in  the  national  cause,  and  so  strong 
was  his  feeling  against  the  oppression  that  existed  in  this 
country,  sternly  and  unbendingly  refused  to  grant  that 
permission,  and  said  that  he  never  would  tread  the  soil  of 
Ireland  again  until  its  people  were  a free  people.  It  had 
always  been  his  dream,  as  he  often  told  it  to  me,  during  the 
many  pleasant  hours  we  passed  together,  that  he  would 
visit  Ireland  when  the  people  of  Ireland  were  a free  nation. 
It  has  always  been  a dream  of  mine,  which  now  unhappily 
is  never  to  be  realized,  to  be  one  of  those  who  would  wel- 
come him  home  in  those  happier  days.” 

On  Tuesday  afternoon,  August  12,  his  body  was  borne 
from  his  home  on  Winthrop  Street  to  St.  Mary’s  Church, 
Charlestown.  The  bearers  were  for  the  most  part  asso- 
ciates of  his  Fenian  days.  They  were  O’ Donovan  Rossa, 
Jeremiah  O’ Donovan,  Michael  Fitzgerald,  James  A.  Wrenn, 
Capt.  Lawrence  O’Brien,  and  D.  B.  Cashman. 

In  the  church  the  patriot’s  remains  lay  in  state  before 
the  high  altar,  an  honor  rarely  accorded  to  a layman.  A 
devoted  guard  of  sorrowing  compatriots  watched  by  his 
bier.  Flowers  and  floral  emblems  lay  on  the  coffin  and 
before  the  altar  rails.  On  the  dead  man’s  breast  lay  a 
bunch  of  shamrocks  and  on  the  coffin-lid  an  offering  from 
the  colored  people  of  Boston,  of  crossed  palm  branches. 
In  the  center  stood  the  offering  of  the  Young  Men’s  Cath- 
olic Association  of  Boston  College,  a tablet,  with  an  open 
book,  across  whose  white  pages  was  wrought  in  violets  this 
line  from  his  “Wendell  Phillips”: 

A sower  of  infinite  seed  was  he,  a woodman  that  hewed  toward 
the  light. 

The  church,  the  sidewalks  before  it,  and  the  adjacent 


360 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


streets  were  thronged  with  the  multitude  of  mourners  long 
before  the  hour  appointed  for  the  funeral  Mass,  which  was 
10  o’clock,  a.m.,  on  Wednesday,  August  13. 

The  four  daughters  and  other  bereaved  relatives  were 
present,  Mrs.  O’Reilly  being  prostrated  with  grief  and 
unable  to  leave  her  bed. 

At  10.30  the  Solemn  Mass  of  Requiem  was  begun,  the 
Rev.  J.  W.  McMahon,  D.D.,  rector  of  St.  Mary’s,  cele- 
brant ; the  Rev.  Charles  O’Reilly,  D.D.,  of  Detroit,  Mich., 
deacon  ; the  Rev.  Richard  Neagle,  Chancellor  of  the  Arch- 
diocese of  Boston,  subdeacon.  The  Rev.  W.  J.  Millerick, 
of  Charlestown,  was  master  of  ceremonies  ; the  Rev.  P.  H. 
Callanan,  of  Foxboro,  Mass.,  and  the  Rev.  Louis  Walsh, 
of  St.  John’s  Seminary,  Brighton,  Mass.,  acolytes  ; the 
Rev.  M.  J.  Doody,  of  Cambridge,  censer-bearer. 

The  sermon  of  eulogy  was  delivered  by  Rev.  Robert 
Fulton,  S.J.,  an  old  and  intimate  friend  of  the  deceased. 
Amid  a silence  that  was  almost  painfully  impressive  the 
venerable  priest  mounted  the  pulpit  and  said:  “John 
Boyle  O’Reilly  is  dead  ! ” The  sermon  touched  every 
heart  and  reached  its  climax  when  the  speaker  said  of  liis 
dead  friend  : 

Has  it  ever  struck  you  that  for  the  success  of  our  great  cause  Mother 
Church  greatly  needs  lay  champions  ? Some  such  there  are  in  other 
countries  ; here  there  are  none  or  few.  Such  a champion  would  need 
talent,  but  more  would  he  need  orthodoxy,  respect  for  legitimate  author- 
ity ; he  should  give  example  in  observing  the  ordinances  of  religion : 
his  life  should  be  a deduction  from  her  spirit.  Such  was  O’Reilly.  I 
have  it  from  one  best  able  to  know  it,  that  he  frequently,  and  very 
lately,  approached  that  source  from  which  we  draw  spiritual  life. 
Those  who  knew  him  noticed  how  increasing  years  enriched  his  charac- 
ter, and  imparted  to  him  readiness  to  forgive,  reluctance  to  pain,  charity 
of  interpretation.  He  was  approximating  Christ,  for  such  is  our 
Exemplar. 

Father  Fulton  was  the  beloved  priest  for  whom  on  his 
departure  from  Boston,  ten  years  previously,  O’Reilly  had 
written  his  touching  poem,  “ The  Empty  Niche.” 

After  the  sermon  and  the  final  absolution,  the  immense 
concourse  of  people  filed  past  the  coffin  and  looked  their 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


361 


last  on  the  handsome,  dark  face,  cold  and  still  in  death. 
For  more  than  an  hour  the  mourning  throng  moved  past, 
until  the  doors  of  the  church  had  to  be  closed  and  the  coffin 
removed  to  the  hearse.  Among  the  thousands  present  in 
the  church  were  priests  from  all  parts  of  the  country, 
State  and  city  officials,  representatives  of  the  Catholic 
Union  of  Boston,  the  Grand  Army  of  the  Republic,  the 
Papyrus  Club,  the  Irish  National  League,  the  Charitable 
Irish  Society,  the  Knights  of  Labor,  the  Young  Men’s 
Catholic  Association  of  Boston  College,  the  Clover  Club, 
the  Boston  Athletic  Association,  St.  Botolph  Club,  An- 
cient Order  of  Hibernians,  and  many  other  organiza- 
tions. 

Nearly  all  of  these  had  sent:  flowers  or  emblems,  which 
were  borne  to  the  cemetery  and  laid  upon  the  coffin.  The 
honorary  pall-bearers  were  his  loyal  friend  and  rescuer, 
Captain  Henry  C.  Hathaway,  Patrick  Donalioe,  Patrick  Ma- 
guire, Editor  John  H.  Holmes,  of  the  Herald  ; Col.  Charles 
H.  Taylor,  President  T.  B.  Fitz,  of  the  Catholic  Union  ; Gen. 
Francis  A.  Walker,  Gen.  M.  T.  Donohoe,  president  of  the 
Charitable  Irish  Society  ; Dr.  J.  A.  McDonald,  Health  Com- 
missioner George  F.  Babbitt,  James  Jeffrey  Roche,  and 
Thomas  Brennan. 

The  long  funeral  train  moved  from  Charlestown  through 
Boston  to  Roxbury  and  thence  to  Calvary  Cemetery,  where 
the  remains  were  placed  in  a vault  to  await  their  final  com- 
mittal to  the  earth. 

One  of  the  first  of  the  many  societies  which  met  to 
mourn  their  loss  was  his  own  beloved  Papyrus  Club.  A 
special  meeting  was  held  on  the  afternoon  of  August  20  at 
the  St.  Botolph  Club  rooms  ; the  president,  James  Jeffrey 
Roche,  in  the  chair.  Tender  and  loving  words  were  spoken 
by  the  members  present.  A committee,  consisting  of 
Messrs.  Wm.  A.  Hovey,  Benjamin  Kimball,  and  Henry  M. 
Rogers,  drew  up  resolutions  of  sympathy  with  the  bereaved 
families  of  John  Boyle  O’Reilly  and  H.  Bernard  Carpenter, 
after  which  Messrs.  Benjamin  Kimball,  T.  Russell  Sullivan, 
and  George  F.  Babbitt  were  appointed  a committee  to  eon' 


362 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


sider  the  preparation  of  a suitable  memorial  by  the  club. 
A subscription  was  voted  from  the  treasury,  and  this,  with 
various  private  subscriptions  from  members  of  the  club, 
aggregated  $1000. 

The  Grand  Army  of  the  Republic  also  held  a special 
meeting  at  the  close  of  the  National  Encampment,  on 
August  14,  at  which  General  Henry  A.  Barnum  presented 
a resolution : 

That  the  G-rand  Army  of  the  Republic  express  their  deep  sorrow  for 
the  too  early  death  of  John  Boyle  O’Reilly, — poet,  orator,  soldier,  and 
patriot, — and  that  this  expression  of  their  grief  and  sorrow  be  certified 
to  the  bereaved  family  of  the  deceased. 

Memorial  services  were  held  in  Newburyport,  Provi- 
dence, Lowell,  Worcester,  and  other  New  England  cities, 
of  which  only  a brief  account  can  be  given  here.  His  warm 
friend,  Father  Teeling,  of  Newburyport,  said : 

A young  man  of  forty-six,  in  a short  space  he  fulfilled  a long  time  ; 
he  was  approaching  the  zenith  of  his  fame;  his  life  was  a beautiful 
flower,  blossomed  to  the  full,  with  a fragrance  that  permeated  the 
whole  atmosphere  and  was  wafted  across  the  seas  to  his  native  land. 
Loving  and  loyal  to  the  land  of  his  adoption,  and  ever  ready  to  work 
for  her  good  and  her  glory  with  all  the  strength  of  his  strong,  noble 
manhood  and  God-given  genius,  he  never  forgot  the  land  of  his  birth  ; 
he  always  battled  for  her  against  scurrilous  enemies,  here  and  abroad. 
As  has  been  well  said,  when  writing-  for  Ireland,  “ he  dipped  his  pen 
into  his  heart.”  Here  he  made  friends  for  Ireland  by  his  genius,  by 
his  manly  beauty,  his  magnificence  of  character,  his  tenderness  for 
oppressed  humanity,  his  “love  for  justice  and  hatred  of  iniquity.” 
Like  Esther  of  old,  he  went  among  his  country’s  enemies  and  made 
them  her  friends  ; he  exalted  her  condition,  he  exalted  the  condition  of 
the  people  of  his  race  ; he  won  for  them,  for  his  native  land,  respect 
and  esteem. 

Another  dear  friend  and  fellow-patriot,  Rev.  Thomas  J. 
Conaty,  speaking  at  Worcester,  said  : 

“Drive  out  from  Drogheda  to  Dowth  Castle,  Soggarth,  and  see  where 
I was  born.  It  is  the  loveliest  spot  in  the  world.  I have  not  seen  it  in 
over  twenty-five  years,  but,  O God  ! I would  like  to  see  it  again.  See 
it  for  me,  will  you  ? ” This  was  O’Reilly’s  request  to  me  a year  ago,  on 
the  eve  of  my  departure  for  Europe.  It  certainly  is  a pretty  spot  near 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


363 


the  historic  Boyne  water,  and  within  a few  miles  of  the  hill  of  Tara, 
Ireland’s  once  royal  city. 

****** 

Two  thoughts  seemed  to  dominate  his  life — religion  and  patriotism ; 
thoughts  which  form  the  basis  of  every  true  life  ; religion,  which 
bound  him  to  God,  and  consecrated  him  to  truth  ; and  patriotism, 
which  made  him  idolize  country  and  think  and  act  for  the  bettering  of 
humanity.  He  drank  deeply  at  the  fountain  of  faith,  and  its  draughts 
strengthened  his  soul  in  its  aspirations  for  the  highest  ideals  of  human 
liberty.  He  was  passionately  fond  of  liberty,  because  he  believed  it  to 
be  a gift  of  God  to  men  ; and  his  voice  and  pen  made  earth  ring  with  his 
denunciations  of  wrong  wherever  found — whether  among  the  cotters  of 
Ireland,  amid  the  serfs  of  Russia,  or  in  the  negro  cabins  of  the  South. 
Liberty  was  his  life  idea,  God  its  source,  and  humanity  its  application. 
As  a silver  trumpet  sounding  the  note  of  human  rights,  he  championed 
humanity  ; but  his  love  was  not  the  humanity  of  a revolution  which 
ignored  and  blasphemed  God,  but  the  humanity  which  a crucified 
Saviour  had  redeemed  and  ennobled. 

* * * * * * 

O Ireland  ! motherland  ! weep  for  your  well-beloved  child ; weep 
for  your  noble-hearted  son.  You  have  lost  a tried  and  trusted  chieftain. 
Weep,  for  you  have  lost  him  when  you  need  your  truest  and  best  to 
defend  you.  Weep,  but  rejoice,  for  he  has  honored  your  name  and 
cause.  Add  another  to  the  roll  of  your  illustrious  children  whose 
names  and  deeds  bid  the  world  demand  your  freedom, — for  such 
another  should  not  sit  at  the  feet  of  tyrants.  Freedom  will  come,  and 
when  it  comes  a pantheon  will  arise,  and  you  will  place  him  where 
honor  is  richest,  and  your  poets  will  chant  his  praise.  But  the  highest 
praise  is  what  he  wished  himself  to  be, — the  man  of  his  people,  beloved 
by  them  and  God. 

“ He  ruled  no  serfs,  and  he  knew  no  pride, 

He  was  one  with  the  workers,  side  by  side  ; 

He  would  never  believe  but  a man  was  made 
For  a nobler  end  than  the  glory  of  trade. 

He  mourned  all  selfish  and  shrewd  endeavor, 

But  he  never  injured  a weak  one — never. 

When  censure  was  passed  he  was  kindly  dumb  ; 

He  was  never  so  wise  but  a fault  would  come. 

He  erred  and  was  sorry  ; but  he  never  drew 
A trusting  heart  from  the  pure  and  true. 

When  friends  look  back  from  the  years  to  be 
God  grant  they  may  say  such  things  of  me.” 

God  has  granted  his  prayer.  God  bless  you,  old  friend,  and  God 


364 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


bless  the  two  loves  of  your  patriotism.  God  bless  your  noble  America, 
and  God  save  your  beloved  Ireland  ! 

Perhaps  nothing  said  in  praise  of  his  memory  was  more 
in  the  spirit  of  eulogy  which  he  would  have  loved  best, 
because  it  was  eulogy  of  his  country  and  his  countrymen, 
than  these  words  from  the  pen  of  a Protestant  clergyman, 
Rev.  H.  Price  Collier,  in  the  Boston  Saturday  Evening 
Gazette : 

If  the  Almighty  should  undertake  to  create  a man  who  was  to  be 
universally  popular,  no  doubt  he  would  create  him  a Celt.  The  Celtic 
temperament,  with  its  ready  adaptability  to  persons  and  circumstances, 
its  quick  wit,  its  fresh  and  wholesome  out-of-door  tone,  its  mental 
chastity,  its  masculine  love  of  sport  and  of  danger,  its  craving  for  free- 
dom from  restraint, — these  together  go  to  make  up  perhaps  the  most 
fascinating  type  of  man  we  know.  Such  men  make  delightful  play- 
fellows as  boys,  and  as  men  ideal  lovers,  lover-like  husbands,  stanch 
friends,  open,  frank  enemies,  and  patriotic  citizens.  There  is  nothing 
of  the  subtlety  and  stealthiness  of  the  Italian,  of  the  morbid  restlessness 
of  the  Gaul,  of  the  indigested  barbarism  of  the  German  in  them  ; and 
though  they  lack  here  and  there  the  steadiness  of  the  Saxon,  they  easily 
surpass  him  both  in  facility  of  adapting  one’s  self  and  in  felicity  of 
expressing  it. 

John  Boyle  O’Reilly  was  a Celt  of  the  very  best  type,  whose  friends 
were  in  the  right  and  whose  enemies — if  he  had  any — were  in  the 
wrong  ; for  his  friends  were  all  made  for  him  by  his  real  character, 
and  his  enemies  by  mistaken  estimates  of  him. 

Many  fine  poems  were  written  in  memory  of  the  dead 
singer,  beautiful  tributes  of  sorrow  and  praise  from  his 
brother  and  sister  poets, — James  Whitcomb  Riley,  Mary 
E.  Blake,  John  W.  O’Keefe,  M.  J.  McNeirny,  Louise 
Imogen  Guiney,  and  a score  of  others,  who  had  known  and 
loved  and  owed  gratitude  for  a thousand  kindly  deeds  to 
this  kindliest  of  men.  One  of  the  most  touching  came 
anonymously  from  San  Diego,  Cal.,  entitled  simply  : 

AUGUST  10,  1890. 

T stirred  in  my  sleep  with  a sudden  fear, 

The  breath  of  sorrow  seemed  very  near, 

And  the  sound  of  weeping  ; I woke  and  said, 

M Some  one  is  dying,  some  ope  is  dead.” 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES.  365 

Long  time  I lay  in  the  darkened  room, 

Dawn  just  piercing  the  silent  gloom, 

And  prayed,  “ O Saviour,  whoe’er  it  be, 

May  the  parting  spirit  find  rest  in  Thee  ! ” 

The  morn  rose  brightly  and  sweetly  smiled 
O’er  the  dancing  waves,  like  a happy  child  ; 

I was  singing  softly,  when  some  one  said, 

“ The  truest  of  all  the  true  is  dead.” 

And  I knew  that  thousands  of  miles  away 
Hearts  were  breaking  that  summer  day,  — 

That  the  wide  world  over,  from  pole  to  pole, 

There  were  sighs  and  tears,  and  ‘ ‘ God  rest  his  soul  i * 

And  I knew — his  dearest  friends  apart, 

The  life  of  his  life  and  the  heart  of  his  heart — 

None  wept  more  for  that  vacant  place 
Than  I, — who  never  had  seen  his  face. 


CHAPTER  XX. 


The  City  of  Boston  Honors  his  Memory — Great  Citizens’  Meeting  in 
Tremont  Temple — Liberal  Subscriptions  to  a Public  Monument — 
Memorial  Meetings  in  New  York  and  Elsewhere — The  “Month’s 
Mind  ” — Eloquent  Sermon  of  Bishop  Healy— The  Poet’s  Grave  in 
Holy  hood. 

rpHE  City  of  Boston  took  official  action  on  the  death  of 
-L  John  Boyle  O’Reilly  by  holding  a citizens’  meeting  at 
Tremont  Temple  on  the  evening  of  September  2,  Mayor 
Hart  presiding.  The  platform  was  filled  with  representa- 
tive citizens  of  every  ancestry  and  creed.  A fine  crayon 
portrait  of  the  dead  poet,  flanked  by  the  Stars  and  Stripes 
and  the  Irish  flag,  was  placed  on  the  wall  of  the  platform. 

Mayor  Hart  delivered  a graceful  address,  and  then  intro- 
duced the  chairman  of  the  evening,  Hon.  Charles  Levi 
W oodbury. 

“ Had  he  been  George  Washington,  Sam  Adams,  or 
John  Hancock,’’  said  Judge  Woodbury,  “he  could  not 
have  loved  more  the  institutions  of  America  than  these 
great  statesmen  loved  that  which  they  had  created  and 
which  they  saw  around  them.  We  feel  so  much  for  him 
as  a citizen  that  we  almost  forget  he  was  born  in  another 
clime.  He  assimilated  himself  so  perfectly  among  us  that 
we  hardly  turned  to  remember  that  he  came  to  us  an  exile, 
a fugitive,  a man  whom  the  oppressors  of  Great  Britain  had 
tried  to  brand  as  a felon,  and  to  put  the  mark  of  ignominy 
upon  him,  because  he  was  a patriot  and  loved  his  people.” 
Judge  Woodbury  was  followed  by  the  Very  Rev.  Wil- 
liam Byrne,  D.D.,  Vicar-General  of  Boston,  a native  of 
O’Reilly’s  County  of  Meath,  and  a warm  personal  friend  of 
the  poet.  He  could  speak  from  his  own  experience  of  the 

366 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


367 


associations  and  influences  which  had  molded  the  character 
of  the  young  x>atriot.  He  said  : 

He  was  a Roman  Catholic  in  religion.  He  was  Catholic  in  faith 
because  he  gave  the  assent  of  his  will  to  all  the  truths  of  religion  made 
known  to  him  by  reason,  revelation,  and  the  teaching  of  the  Church 
which  he  knew  was  founded  by  Christ.  He  was  a Roman  Catholic 
because  he  accepted  the  Bishop  of  Rome  as  the  divinely  ordained  head 
of  that  Church,  and  the  ultimate  judge  in  all  disputed  questions  of  faith 
or  morals. 

He  knew  the  limits  of  human  intelligence  and  the  fallibility  of 
reason  in  the  domain  of  religion,  and  was  content  to  rest  his  faith  on 
well-authenticated  revelation,  made  through  divinely  appointed  chan- 
nels. His  mind  was  too  sane  to  rebel  against  these  limitations,  and  too 
pious  to  blame  the  Creator  for  not  making  man  perfect.  Hence  he  was 
free  from  that  intellectual  pride  and  self-sufficiency  which  impel  some 
men  to  try  to  hew  out  for  themselves  a pathway  in  the  mysterious 
regions  of  religion,  and  to  invent  a way  of  salvation  all  their  own. 

As  Father  Byrne  could  speak  for  the  dead  hero’s  relig- 
ious character,  so  Colonel  Chas.  H.  Taylor,  of  the  Boston 
Globe , could  testify  to  his  professional  ability.  Best  proof 
of  the  journalist’s  worth  was  that  to  which  Colonel  Taylor 
bore  witness : 

No  man  was  ever  jealous  of  John  Boyle  O’Reilly.  On  the  contrary, 
all  were  delighted  with  the  position  attained  by  this  large-hearted,  gen- 
erous soul, — this  manly  man  among  manly  men. 

The  next  speaker  was  General  Benjamin  F.  Butler,  who 
had  been,  as  he  said  : 

For  twenty  years  the  legal  adviser  of  John  Boyle  O’Reilly, — a most 
unprofitable  client,  for  he  has  never  had  a lawsuit  or  a contention. 

He  had  one  weakness,  which  was  a very  uncomfortable  one  to  him, 
and  that  was,  he  could  not  hear  a tale  of  woe  or  misfortune  that  he  did 
not  set  himself  about  rectifying  or  relieving  it.  He  could  never'  resist 
not  only  an  appeal  when  made  to  him,  but  the  most  casual  information 
of  wrong  done,  and  especially  wrong  done  to  the  poor  and  unprotected. 

Colonel  Thomas  Wentworth  Higginson,  himself  a soldier 
and  brave  advocate  in  the  cause  of  the  oppressed,  was  then 
introduced  and  spoke  eloquently  of  O’Reilly’s  great  mis- 
sion : 

So  momentous  for  Boston,  so  momentous  for  America,  so  momen- 


368 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


tous  for  the  world,  that  it  might  well  make  a man  willing  to  die  before 
he  is  fifty,  if  he  could  contribute  but  a little  toward  accomplishing  it, — 
the  reconciliation  in  this  community  between  the  Roman  Catholic 
Irishman  and  the  Protestant  American. 

That  was  the  mission  that  Boyle  O’Reilly  seemed  just  as  distinctly 
sent  among  us  to  do,  as  if  he  had  been  born  with  that  mission  stamped 
upon  his  forehead,  and  as  if  a hundred  vicar-generals  had  annointed 
and  ordained  him  for  the  work. 

And  in  doing  this  work  he  showed  not  merely  the  lovableness  of  his 
temperament,  but  its  far-sightedness.  He  knew  that  unless  that  work 
could  be  done,  our  city  and  our  State  and  our  country  are  confessed 
failures.  He  knew  that  American  civilization  was  a failure  if  it  was 
only  large  enough  to  furnish  a safe  and  convenient  shelter  for  the 
descendants  of  Puritans  and  Anglo-Saxons,  leaving  Irishmen  and 
Catholics  outside. 

As  a literary  man,  Colonel  Higginson  gave  O’  Reilly  a 
high  place  in  the  world  of  letters.  As  a patriot,  he  ad- 
mired him  for  remembering  and  loving  his  native  land. 
He  continued  : 

I never  have  been  among  those  who  believed  it  to  be  the  duty  of  an 
Irishman,  as  soon  as  he  set  foot  on  this  soil  and  looked  around  for  his 
naturalization  papers,  to  forget  the  wrongs  and  sorrows  he  had  left 
behind  him. 

I cannot  complain  of  Boyle  O’Reilly  that  through  life  in  his  spirit 
he  kept  the  green  flag  waving  beside  the  Stars  and  Stripes,  any  more 
than  I can  forget  the  recorded  joy  of  McClellan  in  the  terrible  battles  of 
the  Wilderness  when  he  saw  the  green  flags  borne  by  each  regiment  of 
Meagher’s  Irish  Brigade  come  from  the  Second  Army  Corps  to  his  relief. 

In  some  ways  Boyle  O’Reilly  was  not  enough  of  a reformer  for  me. 
I never  could  quite  forgive  him  for  not  being — like  my  friend  and  his 
associate,  Col.  Taylor — a strong  advocate  of  woman  suffrage.  But  I can 
tell  you  that  when  the  man  who  is  doing  two  men’s  work  all  day  still 
spends  night  after  night  in  attending  the  invalid  wife  to  whom  he  owes 
so  much  ; and  when,  in  making  his  last  will,  he  has  the  courage  and 
the  justice  to  leave  that  wife  in  undisturbed  possession  of  all  his  prop- 
erty and  the  executrix  of  his  will,  I am  ready  to  sign  an  amnesty  with 
him  on  the  woman  suffrage  question. 

Colonel  Higginson  was  followed  by  President  E.  H. 
Capen,  H.D.,  of  Tufts  College,  who  said  of  the  deceased: 

He  was  more  than  a patriot,  because  wherever  he  saw  humanity 
oppressed  he  saw  a brother  in  woe,  and  determined  to  give  voice  to  the 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


369 


wrong.  Nay,  he  could  rise,  not  only  above  the  prejudices  of  his  race 
and  the  traditions  of  his  nation,  but  above  even  the  scruples  of  his 
religion,  and  that  is  the  hardest  thing  for  man  to  accomplish  in  this 
world. 

This  man,  a Roman  Catholic  on  New  England  soil,  in  daily  asso- 
ciation with  the  sons  of  Puritans  and  Pilgrims,  the  sons  of  men  who 
hated  the  Papacy  as  the  instrument  of  Satan,  and  whose  descendants 
have  not  entirely  got  beyond  the  narrowness  of  their  forefathers,  could 
yet  describe  in  fitting  terms,  showing  the  appreciation  of  his  mind  and 
soul  for  the  achievements  of  the  founders  of  New  England. 

So  that  it  is  not  only  Ireland  and  America  that  may  mourn  his 
death,  it  is  humanity,  civilization,  our  common  Christianity. 

What  honor  shall  we  pay  to  such  a man  ? It  will  be  honor  enough, 
though  I doubt  if  we  can,  to  take  all  the  virtues  and  all  the  achieve- 
ments of  his  life  into  our  own  souls. 

Then  spoke  a representative  of  the  race  for  which 
O’Reilly  had  zealously  worked  and  written  and  spoken, 
Mr.  Edwin  G.  Walker,  the  colored  lawyer  and  orator. 
Said  he  : 

With  his  pen  John  Boyle  O’Reilly  sent  through  the  columns  of  a 
newspaper  that  he  edited  in  this  city,  words  in  our  behalf  that  were 
Christian,  and  anathemas  that  were  just.  Not  only  that — but  he  went 
on  to  the  platform  and  in  bold  and  defiant  language  he  denounced  the 
murderers  of  our  people  and  advised  us  to  strike  the  tyrants  back.  It 
was  at  a time  when  the  cloud  was  most  heavy  and  more  threatening 
than  at  any  other  period  since  reconstruction.  At  that  time  our  Wen- 
dell Phillips  was  stricken  by  the  hand  of  death,  and  then  it  was  that 
some  doubted  that  they  would  ever  be  able  to  see  a clear  sky.  But  in 
the  midst  of  all  the  gloom  we  could  hear  Mr.  O’Reilly  declaring  his  deter- 
mination to  stand  by  the  colored  American  in  all  contests  where  his 
rights  were  at  stake. 

The  last  speaker  was  Hon.  Patrick  A.  Collins,  the  ora- 
tor and  patriot  who  had  stood  beside  O’Reilly  for  twenty 
years  in  the  long  fight  for  Ireland’s  cause.  He  spoke  as 
follows : 

“ For  Lycidas  is  dead  ere  his  prime 
* * * and  has  not  left  a peer.” 

Even  in  this  solemn  hour  of  public  mourning  it  seems  hard  to  real- 
ize that  we  shall  see  him  no  more.  Men  who  knew  us  both  will  expect 
from  me  no  eulogy  of  Boyle  O’Reilly.  You  mourn  the  journalist,  the 


370 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


orator,  the  poet,  the  patriot  of  two  peoples — the  strong,  tender,  true, 
and  knightly  character.  I mourn  with  you,  and  I also  mourn— 
alone. 

But,  after  all,  the  dead  speak  for  themselves.  No  friend  in  prose  or 
verse  can  add  a cubit  to  his  stature.  No  foe,  however  mendacious,  can 
lessen  his  fame  or  the  love  humanity  bears  him. 

Yet  we  owe,  not  to  him,  but  to  the  living  and  to  the  future,  these 
manifold  expressions  of  regard — these  estimates  of  his  worth.  The 
feverish  age  needs  always  teaching. 

Here  was  a branded  outcast  some  twenty  years  ago,  stranded  in  a 
strange  land,  friendless  and  penniless  ; to-day  wept  for  all  over  the 
world  where  men  are  free  or  seeking  to  be  free,  for  his  large  heart  went 
out  to  all  in  trouble,  and  his  soul  was  the  soul  of  a freeman  ; all  he  had 
he  gave  to  humanity  and  asked  no  return. 

Take  the  lesson  of  his  life  to  your  hearts,  young  men  ; you  who  are 
scrambling  and  wrangling  for  petty  dignities  and  small  honors.  This 
man  held  no  office  and  had  no  title.  The  man  was  larger  than  any 
office,  and  no  title  could  ennoble  him.  He  was  born  without  an  atom 
of  prejudice,  and  he  lived  and  died  without  an  evil  or  ungenerous 
thought. 

He  was  Irish  and  American  ; intensely  both,  but  more  than  both. 
The  world  was  his  country  and  mankind  was  his  kin.  Often  he  struck, 
but  he  always  struck  power,  never  the  helpless.  He  seemed  to  feel 
with  the  dying  regicide  in  “ Les  Miserables,  ” “ I weep  with  you  for  the 
son  of  the  king,  murdered  in  the  temple,  but  weep  with  me  for  the 
children  of  the  people — they  have  suffered  longest.  ” 

Numbered  and  marked  and  branded  ; officially  called  rebel,  traitor, 
convict,  and  felon,  wherever  the  red  flag  floats ; denied  the  sad  privi- 
lege of  kneeling  on  the  grave  of  his  mother — thus  died  this  superb 
citizen  of  the  great  Republic. 

But  his  soul  was  always  free — vain  are  all  mortal  interdicts. 

By  the  banks  of  that  lovely  river,  where  the  blood  of  four  nations 
once  commingled,  in  sight  of  the  monument  to  the  alien  victor,  hard 
by  the  great  mysterious  Rath,  over  one  sanctified  spot  dearer  than  all 
others  to  him,  where  the  dew  glistened  on  the  softest  green,  the  spirit 
of  O’Reilly  hovered,  and  shook  the  stillness  of  the  Irish  dawn  on  its 
journey  to  the  stars. 

A memorial  committee  was  appointed  which  held 
several  meetings  and  did  its  work  so  well  that  before  the 
close  of  the  year  it  had  collected  about  $13,000  of  the  sum 
required  for  the  erection  of  “a  statue  or  other  monument 
to  John  Boyle  O’Reilly  in  the  city  of  Boston.”  When 
that  object  shall  have  been  achieved,  it  is  intended  to 


371 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 

commemorate  the  dead  poet  further  by  endowing  an 
Alcove  of  Celtic  Literature  in  the  new  Public  Library  of 
Boston. 

Another  great  Memorial  meeting  was  held  at  Hunt- 
ington Hall,  Lowell,  on  the  evening  of  September  7,  at 
which  addresses  were  made  by  Rev.  Michael  O’Brien, 
Mayor  Charles  D.  Palmer,  Governor  Brackett,  General 
Butler,  Philip  J.  Farley,  Esq.,  and  Rev.  D.  M.  Byrnes, 
O.M.I. 

In  New  York  City  on  the  following  evening  the  Metro- 
politan Opera  House  was  filled  with  a large  audience, 
Governor  Hill  acting  as  chairman  of  the  meeting.  A fine 
poem  was  read  by  Joseph  I.  C.  Clarke,  and  Judge  James 
Fitzgerald  delivered  an  oration  of  eulogy.  Governor  Leon 
Abbett  also  spoke,  and  letters  of  sympathy  were  read  from 
President  Harrison, — paying  honor  “ to  the  memory  of  the 
distinguished  and  patriotic  citizen,” — from  Senator  His- 
cock,  President  Low  of  Columbia  College,  General  0.  O. 
Howard,  U.S.A.,  ex-Senator  Platt,  and  others. 

The  beautiful  Catholic  ceremony  of  the  “ Month’s 
Mind”  was  celebrated,  at  the  instance  of  the  Catholic 
Union  of  Boston,  at  the  Cathedral  of  the  Holy  Cross,  on 
Wednesday  morning,  September  10.  The  large  church  was 
filled  with  relatives  and  friends  of  the  dead  poet,  repre- 
sentatives of  the  several  national,  religious,  and  social 
organizations  to  which  he  had  belonged,  and  mourning 
citizens  of  all  creeds  and  classes. 

The  celebrant  of  the  Pontifical  Mass  of  Requiem  was 
the  Most  Rev.  John  J.  Williams,  Archbishop  of  Boston  ; 
assistant  priest,  the  Yery  Rev.  John  B.  Hogan,  D.D., 
director  of  the  Catholic  University  of  America  ; deacon  of 
the  mass,  the  Rev.  Arthur  J.  Teeling  of  Newburyport, 
Mass.;  subdeacon,  the  Rev.  John  F.  Ford,  superintendent 
of  the  Workingboy’s  Home,  Boston  ; deacons  of  honor,  the 
Rev.  James  McGlew,  Chelsea,  Mass.,  and  the  Rev.  J.  W. 
McMahon,  rector  of  St.  Mary’s,  Charlestown,  Mass.  The 
master  of  ceremonies  was  the  Rev.  James  F.  Talbot,  D.D., 
of  the  Cathedral. 


372 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


lit.  Rev.  James  A.  Healy,  Bishop  of  Portland,  Me., 
delivered  the  funeral  oration,  from  the  following  text : 

“ Our  friend  sleepeth;  but  I go  that  I may  wake  him  out  of  sleep. — 
John,  xi.” 

Thus  spoke  our  Divine  Master  of  his  friend  Lazarus  ; and  I am 
come,  not  as  a better  friend  of  the  dead,  nor  as  more  fit  to  speak  on 
this  occasion,  but  as  one  of  the  earliest  in  this  city,  and,  I trust,  one  of 
the  most  constant  of  his  friends — not  my  friend  only,  but  he  was  our 
friend — we  all  knew  him,  watched  him,  loved  him  as  our  friend. 

* * * - * * * 

Our  friend,  the  man  whom  we  loved  as  a friend,  sleepeth.  Let  us 
consider  our  friend  as  a man.  I am  not  here  to  sing  his  praises  as  an 
angel,  nor  yet  as  a man  of  so  sublime  and  ascetic  life  as  we  ascribe  to 
the  superhuman  on  earth.  Our  friend  was  a human  man.  I am  not 
here  to  tell  of  his  attainments  in  letters,  or  of  his  success  as  a writer 
for  the  press,  as  an  author,  a poet,  gifted  with  a versatile  and  ever-ready 
and  competent  pen  and  tongue  ; nor  even  to  recall  the  oft-told  story  of 
his  early  life — his  efforts  for  Ireland,  his  captivity,  his  escape  by  help  of 
generous  sons  of  America  ; nor  even  to  describe  the  manly  form,  the 
noble  presence,  the  hardy  and  athletic  temperament  that  we  looked 
upon  with  wonder  and  delight  ; but  I would  wish  to  remind  you  of  the 
characteristics  of  our  friend  as  a man.  In  the  holy  book  one  is  described 
as  “ a man  simple  and  right”  ; that  is  straightforward,  direct.  Have 
you  known  one  who  sought  by  direct  ways  and  means  the  end  he 
aimed  at — who  for  that  end  was  willing  to  wait,  to  endure,  to  suffer  ; 
who  in  the  weakness  and  helplessness  of  subject  youth  invited  others  to 
dare  and  suffer,  but  led  the  way  as  captain  of  the  forlorn  hope  ; who  in 
prison  walls  could  not  be  prevented  from  piously  gathering  and  con- 
signing to  mother  earth  the  disinterred  bones  of  former  captives — of 
those  hapless  Americans  who  died  in  English  prisons  ; who  for  his 
country’s  sake  bravely  bore  the  horrors  of  the  prison  ship,  the  brutality 
of  a convict  settlement  ; and  yet,  everywhere,  and  in  all  things,  the 
straightforward,  the  manly,  the  long-suffering  but  unconquered  spirit  ? 
Such  was  our  friend. 

Have  you  known  an  ardent  soul,  loving  his  dear  old  country  as  a 
sorrowing  and  afflicted  mother,  loving  her  as  only  an  Irish  exile  can 
love  ; and  yet  turning  with  admiring  love  to  the  new  country,  which 
had  become  his  from  the  day  he  landed  on  her  shores  ? He  loved 
Ireland  as  his  mother.  He  loved  America  as  man  loves  a blooming  and 
happy  spouse.  At  times  there  may  have  been  those  who  found  fault 
with  his  unwavering  devotion  and  constant  efforts  for  the  old  land. 
But  I will  venture  to  say  here,  under  this  sacred  roof,  no  one  who  has 
not  seen  the  beautiful  island  and  its  oppressed  people  ; aye,  more,  no 


GRAVE  OF  JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY,  WITH  BOULDER,  HOLYHOOD  CEMETERY,  BROOKLINE.  MASS 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


373 


one  who  has  not  felt  and  endured  the  yoke  of  cruel  inhuman  tyranny, 
that  for  centuries  has  weighed  down  a gallant,  a generous,  a noble 
people,  in  spite  of  faults  incident  to  humanity,  can  properly  enter  into 
the  ardent,  patriotic  love  of  Irishmen  for  Ireland  or  their  hatred  of 
oppression  and  the  oppressor.  And  such,  in  his  ardent  love  for  his 

native  country,  was  our  friend. 

****** 

A word  of  his  home  life.  If  we  follow  him  a young  and  brilliant  man, 
we  see  him  repairing  from  the  conversation,  from  the  club,  from  the 
evening  joys,  and  hastening  home  to  the  bedside  of  his  sick  wife,  to  the 
children  anxious  to  greet  him,  to  the  playfulness  of  a warm  father,  in 
whom  they  felt  they  had  a friend.  Such  was  he  as  a husband  and  a 
father. 

On  such  an  occasion  and  within  these  walls,  the  mouth-piece  of  the 
Lord  would  speak  to  no  purpose  unless  he  should  speak  of  the  disciple 
of  Christ  as  he  was,  or  as  he  ought  to  be.  And  our  friend  was  a Chris- 
tian, a child  of  the  Church  of  God. 

****** 

He  is  gone — our  friend  sleepeth.  The  body,  indeed,  rests  in  the 
tomb,  far  from  the  land  he  longed  so  much  to  revisit;  but  the  soul 
liveth  unto  God.  And  do  you  now,  venerable  pontiff,  and  his  friend, 
begin  those  prayers  of  Holy  Church  which  follow  the  departing  soul 
even  to  the  throne  of  God.  Do  you,  brethren  in  Faith,  join  your  prayers 
with  the  pontiff,  asking  for  him  rest,  light,  life,  the  awakening  unto 
God;  and  do  Thou,  O Divine  Lord,  whose  words  we  have  quoted  for 
Thy  friend — “ I go  to  wake  him  ” — do  Thou  come  at  the  last  great  day 
to  wake  him,  to  wake  the  body  from  the  grave,  that  thus,  soul  and  body 
reunited  in  light  and  glory  and  joy  eternal,  our  friend  may  rejoice  for- 
evermore. 

The  Catholic  Union  of  Boston,  the  Charitable  Irish  So- 
ciety, the  Boston  Press  Club,  and  hundreds  of  other  organiza- 
tions throughout  the  country,  and  on  both  sides  of  the 
ocean,  passed  similar  resolutions,  the  mere  chronicling  of 
which  would  be  but  a reiteration  of  the  fact,  known  to  all 
the  English  speaking  world,  that  John  Boyle  O’ Reilly  was 
the  most  sincerely  loved  and  the  most  truly  mourned  man 
of  his  generation. 

His  body  lay  in  the  receiving  tomb  of  Calvary  until 
November  7,  when  it  was  removed  to  Holy  hood  cemetery, 
Brookline,  Mass.,  for  final  interment. 

The  poet’s  grave  is  marked  by  a natural  monument 
worthy  of  the  man,  On  the  highest  point  of  Holyhood 


374 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


there  crops  out  a ledge  of  rock,  over  the  face  of  which, 
countless  ages  ago,  the  great  glacial  plow  cut  its  way,  leav- 
ing a polished  surface  to  mark  its  passage.  On  the  crest 
of  this  ledge,  deposited  by  the  mighty  glacier,  rests  a giant 
boulder,  about  fifteen  feet  high,  and,  roughly  speaking, 
twelve  feet  square, — seventy-five  tons  of  weather-stained, 
conglomerate  rock.  It  stands  a picturesque  land-mark, 
solitary,  massive  and  majestic. 

It  is  to  be  the  tombstone  of  John  Boyle  O’ Reilly,  whose 
grave  is  at  its  base.  No  mark  save  a single  tablet  let  in  to 
its  face  shall  mar  the  severe  simplicity  of  the  monolith — 
nature’s  fitting  memorial  to  God’s  nobleman. 


CHAPTER  XXI. 


Early  Traits  of  Character — Letters  from  Prison — His  Religious  Nature 
Exemplified — An  Ideal  Comrade — Love  of  Nature  and  of  Art — 
His  First  Poem — His  Lavish  Charity  and  Kindness — A Child’s 
Tribute — The  End. 

KINDNESS  was  the  fruit,  courtesy  the  flower,  of 
John  Boyle  O’Reilly’s  character.  Its  seed  was  that 
“sacrificial  seed”  of  which  he  sings  so  often  and  so 
earnestly.  While  absolutely  free  from  personal  vanity  or 
pride  of  intellect,  no  man  could  be  more  dignified  on  oc- 
casion than  was  this  rare  combination  of  bodily  beauty  and 
mental  greatness.  His  courtly  manners  were  neither  the 
product  of  culture  nor  the  garb  of  policy.  They  were 
born  with  him. 

Even  when  a little  child  he  was  noted  for  his  winning 
qualities.  “His  smile  was  irresistible,”  writes  his  sister, 
“but  I think  his  greatest  charm  was  in  his  manner.  From 
earliest  childhood  he  was  a favorite  with  everybody,  and 
yet  the  wildest  boy  in  Dowth.  If  any  mischievous  act  was 
committed  in  the  neighborhood,  John  was  blamed,  yet 
everybody  loved  him  and  would  hide  him  from  my  father 
when  in  disgrace.” 

The  same  was  true  of  his  life  in  barracks  and  in  prison. 
The  magnetism  of  the  boyish  soldier  won  more  converts  to 
treason  than  his  fervid  eloquence.  Even  the  uncompro- 
mising loyalty  and  Protestantism  of  an  Orangeman  from  the 
“black  North  ” succumbed  to  his  fascination  and  did  not 
recover  from  the  spell  until  the  Fenian  mdlgre  lui  found 
himself  a life  convict  and  wondered  how  it  had  come  about. 
From  a dozen  letters  written  by  O’Reilly  to  his  lieart- 

375 


376  JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 

broken  mother  and  family,  while  he  lay  in  Arbor  Hill 
prison,  I quote  : 

They  all  like  me  here,  and  if  I sent  you  all  the  notes  I get  thrown  to 
me  for  “ dear  J.  B.”  or  “ J.  B.  O.”  you  would  be  amused.  There’s  a 
fine  young  fellow  here,  a Preston  Irishman,  named  Kelly.  He  begged 
even  a button  from  me,  for  a keepsake.  I gave  him  the  ring  of  my 
plume,  and  he’s  as  happy  as  possible. 

In  the  same  letter,  while  expressing  his  belief  that  his 
sentence  would  be  less  severe  if  the  threatened  Fenian  upris- 
ing should  fail  to  occur,  he  writes  in  confident  expectation 
and  hope  that  it  will  take  place : 

Perhaps  you  think  there  will  be  none,  but  you’ll  see,  either  this  or 
next  month,  please  God.  Even  in  here  we  get  assurances  of  not  being 
forgotten,  and  that  the  work  goes  on  better  than  ever.  Never  grieve 
for  me,  I beg  of  you,  God  knows  I’d  be  only  too  happy  to  die  for  the 
cause  of  my  country.  Pray  for  us  all ; we  are  all  brothers  who  are 
suffering. 

When  the  suspense  was  ended,  he  sent  these  brave  words 
of  comfort  to  his  loved  ones  : 

I wrote  these  slips  before  I knew  my  fate,  and  I have  nothing  more 
to  say,  only  God’s  holy  will  be  done!  If  I only  knew  that  you  would 
not  grieve  for  me  I’d  be  perfectly  happy  and  content.  My  own  dear 
ones,  you  will  not  be  ashamed  of  me  at  any  rate;  you  all  love  the  cause 
I suffer  for  as  well  as  I,  and  when  you  pray  for  me  pray  also  for  the 
brave,  true-hearted  Irishmen  who  are  with  me.  Men  who  do  not  un- 
derstand our  motives  may  call  us  foolish  or  mad,  but  every  true  Irish 
heart  knows  our  feelings  and  will  not  forget  us.  Don’t  come  here  to 
bid  me  good-by  through  the  gate.  I could  never  forget  that.  I’ll  bid 
you  all  good-by  in  a letter. 

God  bless  you ! 

John. 

“ God’s  holy  will  be  done  ! ” That  was  the  key-note  of 
his  character.  “ 1 1 is  the  will  of  God,  or  I’ d n ot  get  a day,  ’ ’ 
he  wrote  when  speaking  of  his  sentence.  His  faith  was  as 
simple  as  the  life  which  it  inspired  was  upright  and  hon- 
orable. “ It  would  hardly  appear  to  some  people,”  writes 
his  close  friend,  Mr.  Moseley,  “ but  the  great  thing  that 
impressed  me  in  Boyle’s  character  was  his  manliness,  his 


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FAC  SIMILE  LETTERS  WRITTEN  IN  PRISON — ORIGINALS  IN  POSSESSION 
OF  MRS.  MERRY  OF  LIVERPOOL,  ENGLAND. 


* 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


377 


self-abnegation,  and,  more  than  anything  else,  his  child- 
like faith  in  the  teachings  of  his  youth,  his  firm,  unshaken 
conviction,  and  his  beautiful  trust  and  repose  in  his  religion, 
his  Church,  and  his  God.  With  him  it  was  a fixed  fact,  a 
never  faltering  attitude  of  his  mind,  and  when,  by  his  liter- 
ary associations,  he  was  thrown  with  men  who  were  doubt- 
ers, agnostics,  and  disbelievers,  his  faith  was  as  sublime, 
his  conviction  as  unshaken,  and  his  devotion  as  constant  as 
when  he  learned  the  lesson  at  his  mother’s  knee.  Though 
I have  seen  him  in  many  trying  situations,  surrounded  by 
dangers  and  beset  by  troubles,  I have  never  known  him  to 
relinquish  his  reliance  upon  the  Higher  Power  whose  boun- 
teous love  and  ever  watchful  care  his  own  character  con- 
fessed and  glorified. 

“ His  was  a practical  religion  ; he,  of  all  men,  made  the 
Divine  injunction  of  unselfishness  the  rule  of  his  daily  life, 
and  never  have  I seen  a more  sclf-sacrificing  character,  a 
more  self -abnegating  spirit,  and  a more  watchful  regard  for 
the  comfort  and  interests  of  others,  than  was  exhibited  in 
John  Boyle  O’Reilly.” 

Such  was  the  impression  left  predominant  in  the  mind 
of  one  not  of  his  race  or  religion,  after  years  of  close  asso- 
ciation with  O’  Reilly.  The  least  bigoted  of  men,  he  yet 
carried  the  sign  of  his  Faith  with  him  wherever  he  went, 
as  simply  and  unostentatiously  as  he  did  that  of  his  coun- 
try ; for  he  was  unassumingly  proud  of  both.  A writer  in 
the  Atlantic  Monthly  quotes  from  O’Reilly’s  correspon- 
dence with  a Western  friend  on  the  same  theme  : 

And  yet  your  letter  makes  me  smile.  Puritan  you,  with  your  con- 
demnation of  the  great  old  art-loving,  human,  music-breathing,  color- 
raising, spiritual,  mystical,  symbolical  Catholic  Church  ! A 

great,  loving,  generous  heart  will  never  find  peace  and  comfort  and 
field  of  labor  except  within  her  unstatistical,  sun-like,  benevolent 
motherhood.  J.,  I am  a Catholic  just  as  I am  a dweller  on  the  planet, 
and  a lover  of  yellow  sunlight,  and  flowers  in  the  grass,  and  the  sound 
of  birds.  Man  never  made  anything  so  like  God’s  work  as  the 
magnificent,  sacrificial,  devotional  faith  of  the  hoary  but  young 
Catholic  Church.  There  is  no  other  church;  they  are  all  just  way 
stations. 


378 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


So  much  for  his  creed  ; his  Christian  charity  was  as 
boundless  as  the  universe.  He  was  absolutely  devoid  of 
sectarian  prejudice.  The  eloquent  Methodist  clergyman, 
Rev.  Louis  A.  Banks,  of  Boston,  justly  said  of  him  : 

With  unfeigned  sympathy  and  love,  I,  a Protestant,  with  the  charity 
with  which  I myself  hope  to  be  judged,  would  say  of  my  brother 
Catholic,  his  heart  was  Christian. 

His  religion  was  expressed  in  deeds  rather  than  in 
words.  He  forgave  his  enemies  ; he  was  the  brother  of  all 
the  poor  and  oppressed  ; he  devoted  his  talents  to  the  ser- 
vice of  humanity  ; he  preached  and  practiced  the  gospel  of 
kindness. 

The  courtesy  which  won  the  hearts  of  strangers  at  their 
first  meeting  with  him  was  not  a garment  put  on  for  the 
occasion.  It  clothed  his  everyday  life  ; it  was  as  much  a 
part  of  him  as  his  breath  or  his  blood.  A Scotch  lady  liv- 
ing in  Boston  tells  the  following  anecdote  : 

Going  down  a public  street,  one  day,  I saw  a distinguished-looking 
man,  to  whom,  as  he  passed,  two  laborers  working  on  the  roadway 
touched  their  hats.  He  returned  the  courtesy  by  lifting  his  own  and 
bowing  gracefully.  The  act,  little  enough  in  itself,  was  an  uncommon 
one  in  democratic  America.  When  the  gentleman  had  passed  by,  I 
stopped  and  asked  one  of  the  laborers  who  he  was.  He  answered  : 

“ There  goes  the  first  gentleman  in  America,  John  Boyle  O’Reilly, — 
God  bless  him  ! ” 

He  was  the  ideal  comrade  for  an  outdoor  holiday.  His 
friend  Moseley  says : 

There  is  nothing  which  so  brings  out  the  true  character  of  a man  as 
freedom  from  all  social  restraints  and  conventionalities,  such  as  is 
found  in  a canoe  voyage.  There  his  brilliancy,  his  intellectuality,  the 
finer  qualities  or  accomplishments,  count  as  nothing  compared  with  a 
ready,  unselfish  spirit,  a willingness  to  do  his  full  share  of  the  drudgery 
of  camp  life,  to  cut  the  wood,  draw  the  water,  and  scrub  the  kettle ; 
and  in  this  was  found  one  of  Boyle  O’Reilly’s  greatest  charms  as  a 
companion.  He  was  far  from  being  a shirk : he  always  wanted  to  do 
the  whole  thing.  He  insisted  that  I should  have  the  sheltered  corner 
of  the  tent,  the  daintiest  bit  of  meat,  or  the  pleasant  side  of  the  camp 
fire.  It  was  this,  more  than  anything  else,  that  made  our  cruises  so 
pleasant  to  us  both,  and  in  which  we  were  so  congenial.  While  his 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


379 


conversation  was  delightful,  and  the  mental  companionship  a most 
enjoyable  feature  of  our  trips,  this  would  not  have  compensated  for  a 
lack  of  those  more  practical  virtues  which  I have  mentioned, — which, 
after  all,  were  founded  in  his  absolute  unselfishness  and  self-abnega- 
tion. 

Kindness,  always  kindness,  was  his  watchword.  In  a 
letter  to  his  friend,  Mr.  Michael  Cavanagh,  of  Washington, 
written  in  July,  1878,  I find  the  same  note  : 

We  are  growing  old,  Mike,  and  our  turn  will  soon  be  here.  May 
we  be  remembered  with  affection  as  they  are— as  all  the  kindly  hearts 
are.  After  all,  there  is  nothing  so  strong  as  kindness;  everything 
else — esteem,  admiration,  friends — is  good,  but  there  is  nothing  so 
pure  and  strong  to  hold  our  affections  as  the  memory  of  a warm  and 
sympathetic  heart. 

He  inculcated  the  same  principle  in  the  many  contro- 
versies inevitable  to  his  journalistic  career, — to  fight  a 
wrong  or  a wrong-doer  until  justice  was  attained,  then  to 
forget  the  quarrel  as  speedily  as  possible,  and  “ be  sure  to 
say  something  kind”  about  the  adversary  at  the  first 
opportunity. 

He  laid  down  and  followed  another  rule:  “ Never  do 
anything  as  a journalist  which  you  would  not  do  as  a 
gentlemen.”  How  faithfully  that  rule  was  obeyed  his 
twenty  years  of  editorial  work  attest. 

It  was  O’Reilly’s  rare  fortune  to  be  appreciated  and 
loved  during  his  lifetime.  If  any  side  of  his  character 
was  misunderstood  by  good  people,  it  was  the  healthy, 
vigorous  one  which  rejoiced  in  manly  sport,  especially  in 
tfiat  of  boxing.  How  such  a gentle,  kindly  heart  could 
dwell  within  a lusty,  combative  body  was  a mystery  not 
only  to  the  narrow  folk  who  mistake  dyspepsia  for  piety, 
but  even  to  truly  religious  people  less  generously  endowed 
with  natural  appetites.  As  the  Jesuit  Father,  John  J. 
Murphy,  wisely  says  of  O’  Reilly’ s love  for  the  manly  art, 
“ He  hated  everything  in  it  but  the  higher  essence — the 
game  spirit,  the  heroic  endurance,  the  plucky  heart.”  But 
once  engaged  in  a friendly  encounter  he  fought  gallantly, 
as  if  fighting  for  life  itself. 


380 


JOHN  BOYLE  o’KEILLY. 


It  was  the  qualities  of  courage  and  endurance,  prime 
essentials  of  the  boxer,  which  made  O’  Reilly  first  dare  the 
rebel’s  fate,  and  afterward  bear  the  penalty  with  fortitude. 
But  for  the  brave  heart  within  him  he  would  never  have 
joined  the  Fenian  ranks  ; but  for  it  he  would  have  de- 
spaired and  died  in  a felon’s  cell. 

He  never  hesitated  to  employ  the  ultimate  argument 
if  a needed  lesson  had  to  be  given  to  some  insolent  bully. 
He  would  not  seek  what  is  euphemistically  called  a diffi- 
culty, on  his  own  account ; but  when  the  rights  of  the 
weak  needed  a champion,  most  assuredly  he  never  shunned 
one. 

This  healthy,  natural  man  could  not  but  love  nature 
with  a deep  love,  although  the  passion  finds  little  expres- 
sion in  his  poetry.  On  that  subject  Mr.  Moseley  again 
writes  : 

John  Boyle  O’Reilly  was  very  close  to  Nature  and  to  man.  He 
was  in  thorough  sympathy  with  all  created  things,  and  saw  in  them 
the  manifestation  of  God’s  power.  It  is  not  difficult  to  imagine  the 
pleasure  which  such  a man  experienced,  and  shared  with  others,  from 
a life  in  the  woods.  To  him  every  leaf  was  a thing  of  beauty,  every 
tree  a pillar  in  Nature’s  temple  ; in  every  raindrop  he  saw  a pearl  from 
her  jewel  box,  and  their  plashing  was  the  music  of  her  voice. 

To  illustrate  to  a certain  extent  this  feature  of  his  character,  I can 
tell  an  incident  which  happened  a number  of  years  ago,  but  which  is 
still  fresh  in  my  memory.  We  were  in  the  habit,  one  summer,  of 
going  down  Boston  Harbor  in  our  canoes  almost  every  pleasant  after- 
noon, and  had  found  much  enjoyment  in  the  companionship,  the  re- 
spite from  business,  and  the  cool  sea  breezes  at  the  entrance  to  the  bay. 
It  happened  that  I had  been  prevented  from  going  for  several  days, 
when  Boyle  came  to  me  one  afternoon  and  insisted  that  I must  drop 
everything  and  go  with  him  that  day,  for  he  had  something  down  there 
to  show  me, — something  which  I must  see.  Curious  to  see  what  had 
so  aroused  his  enthusiasm,  and  anxious  for  the  pleasure  which  such  an 
expedition  with  him  always  brought,  I started  at  once,  and  after  a hard 
paddle  down  the  harbor  we  reached  one  of  the  islands  on  which, 
under  Boyle’s  guidance,  we  landed,  and  hauled  our  canoes  upon  the 
beach. 

Mounting  the  barren  clay  bank  with  the  impetuosity  of  a child,  he 
shouted  : “ There  it  is,  Ned!  Look  at  it!  And  God  put  it  there  for 

me ! ” Following  his  outstretched  hand  I saw,  growing  alone  upon  the 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


381 


arid  soil,  the  tiniest,  prettiest  little  tuft  of  green  clover  which,  it 
seemed,  my  eyes  had  ever  seen.  And  then  he  told  me  how  he  had 
come  down  there  alone,  feeling  lonely  and  despondent  (his  family 
being  away),  and  worried  by  those  little  annoyances  of  life  which  none 
can  escape.  His  mind  was  dwelling  for  the  moment  upon  the  barren- 
ness and  emptiness  of  this  world,  the  whole  scene  by  which  he  was 
surrounded  seeming  perfectly  in  accord  with  his  own  thoughts,  when 
suddenly  he  spied  this  little  bunch  of  clover.  “And  when  I saw,” 
said  he,  “ that  emblem  of  God’s  all-pervading  presence,  which  He  had, 
I believe,  put  there  for  me,  which  He  had  sent  His  rain  and  dew  to 
nourish  and  His  sunlight  to  strengthen,  and  which  He  had  made  grow 
in  this  little  desert  as  a sign  of  His  far-reaching  power — a realization 
of  His  wonderful  goodness  and  protecting  care  rolled  over  me  like  a 
wave  from  the  ocean  at  my  feet.  I thought  of  all  the  blessings  which  I 
had  to  thank  and  praise  Him  for  ; and  as  the  wave  rolled  back  it  bore 
with  it  the  sense  of  loneliness  and  despondency  which  had  oppressed 
me,  and  left  me  soothed  and  strengthened,  and  with  a renewed  faith  in 
the  nearness  of  God  to  all  His  creatures.  Standing  there  on  that  rocky 
coast,  the  fresh  wind  of  heaven  blowing  around  him  and  the  rolling 
ocean  stretching  out  to  the  horizon,  he  apostrophized  that  little  bunch 
of  clover  in  a strain  which  I have  never  heard  equaled.  It  was  a poem 
of  sublime  faith  in  God  and  His  love  for  man,  and  I listened  spell- 
bound to  his  matchless  eloquence. 

He  loved  nature  and  lie  loved  art,  but  lie  better  loved 
mankind.  That  love  was  given  freest  expression  to  those 
near  him,  his  wife  and  little  daughters.  Without  entering 
into  the  sacredness  of  his  domestic  life,  it  is  enough  to  say 
that  there  he  was  truly  at  his  best.  He  was  infinitely 
patient,  tender,  and  considerate.  He  would  read  for  hours 
every  evening  to  his  little  ones  from  the  book,  which  he 
cherished  and  taught  them  to  understand,  Shakespeare, 
Milton,  Dante,  Shelley,  Byron,  Keats,  and  all  the  masters 
of  English  verse.  One  summer,  when  his  wife  was  away  at 
Nantucket,  he  read  the  Arabian  Nights  through  to  his  little 
girls,  taking  a boyish  delight  in  breaking  all  rules  of  wise 
conduct  by  prolonging  the  entertainment  away  into  the 
unhallowed  hours  of  morning,  and  enjoining  secrecy  on  his 
fellow-culprits. 

Here  is  a letter,  one  of  many,  written  to  his  daughters, 
Bessie  and  Agnes,  at  their  convent  home  in  Elmhurst, 
Providence. 


382 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


The  “Pilot ” Editorial  Rooms, 

Boston,  November  19,  1889. 

Dear  Old  Bess  : 

At  last  I am  out  of  the  wood  of  hard  work  that  has  shut  me  in  for 
two  months.  The  first  pleasure  I take  is  to  write  to  my  dear  brown 
hen  and  my  dear  blue  pigeon.  I have  never  been  so  busy  in  all  my 
life  as  I have  been  since  Mammie  and  I came  from  the  mountains.  I 
have  literally  not  had  a leisure  hour  for  fifty  days.  I long  to  go  to  Elm- 
hurst and  see  you— I wish  you  and  I could  go  away  in  my  canoe,  down 
a long,  sunny,  beautiful  river,  and  camp  on  the  banks  for  weeks  and 
weeks,  till  wTe  were  rested,  rested,  and  had  forgotten  the  busy,  noisy 
cities  and  all  the  work  and  trouble  that  are  “ out  in  the  world.”  Last 
night  a little  boy,  ten  years  old,  came  to  play  the  violin  for  mamma  and 
me.  He  has  been  playing  in  public  for  two  years  ; but  he  plays  rudely 
and  carelessly,  though  I think  he  has  talent,  and  would  be  a good 
musician  if  carefully  trained — like  a dear  old  fiddler  that  I want  to  kiss 
this  moment.  I suppose  Mollie  has  sent  you  the  poem  I read  at  the 
University.  It  was  well  received  by  the  Cardinals  and  Bishops;  and 
they  were  a very  grand  audience,  filling  the  whole  large  room  with 
their  crimson  and  purple  robes. 

But  Mamsey  and  I were  glad  to  get  back,  and  we  have  rested  well 
since  Sunday  night.  We  shall  soon  go  to  Providence  to  see  our  dear 
girls.  Mrs.  Weller  particularly  asked  for  you;  they  were  very  kind  to 
us  in  Washington.  We  saw  some  great  and  wonderful  things  in  many 
cities  while  away  ; but  we  saw  one  little  work  by  a great  man  that 
made  us  forget  everything  else — buildings,  monuments,  bridges,  and 
cities.  It  was  a picture — a little  oil  painting,  eighteen  inches  square — 
“ L’ Angel  us,”  by  Millet,  which  is  on  exhibition  in  New  York.  It  is  in 
a great  gallery  where  there  are  hundreds  of  other  famous  pictures — 
some  of  them  world-famous.  And,  besides,  there  are  in  the  lower  rooms 
five  hundred  bronzes  by  the  greatest  genius  in  sculpture  that  has  lived 
for  two  hundred  years, — Barye,  the  animal  sculptor.  We  thought,  as 
we  looked  at  his  splendid  grim  lions  and  tigers  and  horses  and  elephants, 
that  painting  never  could  interest  us  any  more.  “Oh,  painting  is 
inferior  to  these  glorious  creatures,”  said  Mamsey?  as  she  stood  before  a 
great  lion  that  held  down  a snake  with  his  paws  and  roared  at  him. 
And  then  we  went  upstairs  to  the  pictures. 

At  the  head  of  the  stairs  was  Millet’s  famous  picture  ‘ The  Sower,  ” 
a tall,  powerful  young  French  peasant  sowing  seed  in  the  dusk  of  the 
evening.  It  is  a wonderful  picture  (Mr.  Quincy  Shaw  of  Boston  owns 
it ; he  paid  $30,000  for  it,  years  ago).  This  made  Mammie  stop  and 
look  long.  Then  came  a river  and  a young  wood  by  Corot,  and  a 
fairy-like  landscape  with  golden  clouds  by  Diaz  ; and  then  we  forgot 
the  bronzes,  as  canvas  after  canvas,  of  indescribable  beauty  and  enor- 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


383 


mous  value,  came  before  us.  At  last  we  turned  and  looked  down  the 
long  gallery.  There  was  a little  group  of  people  standing  on  one  side 
near  the  other  end.  And  on  the  wall,  alone,  hung  a little  picture — 
“ The  Angelus  ” — that  was  to  all  the  others  as  a diamond  is  to  its  set- 
ting. It  was  sold  in  Paris  a few  months  ago,  the  price  being  $129,090 
(the  largest  sum  ever  paid  for  a painting),  and  the  duty  on  it  when 
brought  here  was  $30,000  more.  But  it  was  worth  more.  You  know 
the  picture  from  the  engraving  ; it  is  the  same  size  ; but  the  coloring  is 
like  the  very  touch  of  God  Himself  in  the  sweet,  flushing  sunset.  Far 
away  on  the  fields  is  the  church  spire.  The  sun  is  very  low,  and  is 
not  seen ; but  the  most  exquisite  gentle  flush  that  ever  was  painted  by 
man  touches  the  bowed  head  and  crossed  hands  on  the  breast  of  the 
praying  woman  and  the  back  of  the  head  and  shoulders  of  the  man. 
It  is  not  a man  and  woman  praying — it  is  a painted  prayer.  You  can 
hear  the  Angelus  bell  filling  the  beautiful  air  ; you  can  see  the  woman’s 
lips  moving  ; you  pray  with  her.  One  looks  at  the  lovely  picture  with 
parted  lips  and  hushed  breath.  And  so  great  is  art  that  all  who  see  it 
feel  the  same  sweet  influence — Protestant  as  well  as  Catholic.  It  was 
bought  by  Protestants  ; probably  Mammie  and  I were  the  only  Catho- 
lics in  the  building  that  day.  We  could  hardly  go  away  from  it  ; and 
as  we  did  go,  we  looked  at  nothing  else  there.  Everything  else  had 
lost  value.  We  passed  “The  Sower”  with  a glance  (because  it  was 
Millet’s,  too),  but  we  never  looked  at  the  bronzes.  All  day  and  ever 
since  I keep  saying  at  times  to  Mammie,  ‘ ‘ I can  see  the  reddish  flush  on 
those  French  peasants ” ; and  she  says  : “I  can  hear  the  Angelus  bell 

whenever  I think  of  the  picture.” 

And  yet  the  genius  who  painted  this  treasure  sold  it  for  a few 
hundred  francs.  He  lived  all  his  life  in  a little  French  village.  He 
was  not  regarded  as  a great  man ; and  he  died  very  poor.  His  brother 
is  now  in  Boston,  a very  poor  old  man,  a sculptor ; he  wanted  to  make 
a bust  of  me  last  year.  But  Francois  Millet  was  no  sooner  dead  than 
France  knew  that  she  had  lost  an  illustrious  son.  Foreigners  were 
buying  up  his  pictures  at  enormous  prices.  Fortunately  for  Boston, 
Mr.  Shaw  had  recognized  the  genius  many  years  ago,  and  had  bought 
all  the  pictures  he  could  get  ; so  that  we  now  have  in  this  collection  in 
Boston  the  best  pictures  he  ever  painted,  except  “ L’ Angelus.” 

Now,  good-by,  dear  Bess  and  dear  Agnes.  When  I get  something 
to  tell,  I shall  write  a long  letter  to  my  dear  little  fiddler.  Love  and 
kisses.  Papa. 

The  place  in  literature  of  John  Boyle  O’Reilly  will  be 
fixed  by  time.  When  we  study  his  poems  and  speeches, 
and  even  his  necessarily  hasty  editorial  work,  the  one  con- 
spicuous quality  evident  in  them  is  their  author’s  steady 


384 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


growth — higher  thought,  finer  workmanship,  and,  surest 
test  of  advancement,  condensation  in  expression.  Compare 
his  first  volume  of  poems  with  his  last,  and  mark  the 
wonderful  growth  of  thirteen  years.  Had  he  been  granted 
twenty  years  more  of  life,  with  the  leisure  which  he  had 
well  earned  and  hoped  to  enjoy,  it  is  no  partial  praise  to 
say  that  he  might  have  attained  the  foremost  place  in  the 
literature  of  America,  if  not  of  the  world. 

His  growth  was  perceptible  year  by  year — almost  day 
by  day.  But  he  was  hampered  by  the  daily  cares  of  his 
professional  life.  He  had  no  leisure  for  calm  thought  or 
continuous  work.  That  he  should  have  achieved  so  much, 
under  such  conditions,  is  the  highest  proof  of  the  great 
possibilities  that  lay  behind,  awaiting  but  time  and  oppor- 
tunity for  perfect  development.  He  disdained  the  dille- 
tante's  work  in  letters,  the  elaborate  polishing  of  trifles 
which  he  satirizes  in  his  “ Art  Master,”  as  “ carving  of 
cherry-stones.”  He  always  held  the  thought  far  above  the 
language  in  which  it  might  be  clothed.  Yet  he  has  given 
evidence  in  a score  of  perfect  songs,  of  his  ability  to  handle 
rhyme,  rhythm,  and  melody  with  a masterly  skill. 

To  the  kindness  of  his  sister,  Mrs.  Merry,  of  Liverpool, 
England,  I am  indebted  for  a copy  of  his  first  poetical 
effort,  written  when  he  was  eleven  years  old.  Its  subject 
was  the  death  of  Frederick  Lucas,  the  great-hearted  Eng- 
lish friend  of  Ireland.  Very  crude  and  childish,  yet  not 
without  a suggestion  of  originality,  are  the  eight  lines  of 
this  ambitious  elegy : 

He  is  gone,  he  is  gone,  to  a world  more  serene 
Than  the  one  in  which  our  most  true  friend  has  been. 

He  is  pale  as  the  swan,  he  is  cold  as  the  wave, 

And  his  honored  head  lies  low  in  the  deep,  hollow  grave. 

His  death  has  caused  sorrow  throughout  our  green  isle, 

For  now  he  is  gone,  he’ll  no  more  on  us  smile. 

And  now  is  his  poor  brow  as  cold  as  the  lead, 

Because  our  beloved  Frederick  Lucas  is  dead. 

It  is  a far  cry  from  this  to  “ Wendell  Phillips”;  but 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


385 


the  spirit  is  the  same  in  the  doggerel  of  the  child  and  the 
threnody  of  the  man,  — sorrow  for  the  loss  of  a friend  of 
humanity  inspires  both. 

He  left  several  unfinished  poems,  which  appear  in  this 
volume,  and  one  completed  prose  work,  unpublished,  enti- 
tled, “ The  Country  with  a Roof,”  an  allegorical  satire  on 
the  existing  social  condition. 

O’  Reilly  would  not  have  been  true  to  his  Irish  nature 
had  he  not  known  how  to  sing  the  song  of  mourning.  The 
bards  of  Ireland  have  enriched  the  language  with  some  of 
its  noblest  elegies,  a work  for  which  the  education  and 
traditions  of  centuries  had  only  too  well  prepared  them. 
And  what  a range  these  songs  cover  ! From  the  martial 
movement  of  the  “ Burial  of  Sir  John  Moore”  and  the 
“ Bivouac  of  the  Dead,”  to  the  heart-breaking  caoine  of 
Thomas  Davis’s  “Lament  for  Owen  Roe,”  and  the  mad 
“ Hurrah  for  the  Next  that  Dies,”  of  Bartholomew  Dow- 
ling. Whoever  would  understand  the  deepest  depth  of 
Irish  grief,  the  mingling  of  love,  wrath,  and  despair  follow- 
ing the  loss  of  a leader,  will  find  it  all  compressed  in  the 
thirty  odd  lines  of  Davis’s  “Lament,”  with  its  closing 
wail : 

Your  troubles  are  all  over,  you’re  at  rest  with  God  on  high  ; 

But  we’re  slaves  and  we’re  orphans,  Owen  ! — why  did  you  die  ! 

O’  Reilly’ s elegiac  poems  are  Irish,  too,  in  their  warmth 
and  sadness,  but  they  are  keyed  to  a higher  note  of  phil- 
osophy and  hope.  His  own  death  evoked  touching  verses 
from  his  countrymen  and  others, — Henry  Austin,  Edward 
King,  Katharine  E.  Conway,  Homer  Greene,  Arthur  For- 
rester, William  D.  Kelly,  Mrs.Whiton  Stone,  Rose  Cava- 
nagh,  John  E.  Barrett,  Katharine  Tynan,  and  many  more  ; 
for 

Who  would  not  sing  for  Lycidas  ? he  knew 
Himself  to  sing,  and  build  the  lofty  rhyme. 

His  was  the  ideal  Celtic  character,  made  up  of  sunshine 
and  tears, — only,  alas ! his  life  had  seen  little  of  the  sun. 


386 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


There  was  a touch  of  sadness  underlying  all  his  thought. 
It  is  present  almost  everywhere  in  his  writings.  It  comes 
to  the  surface  most  unexpectedly  even  in  the  lightest  and 
gayest  of  his  Papyrus  poems.  “We  are  growing  old;” 
“grim  Death  beckons  to  us  all.”  This  is  the  burden  of 
his  song  ; sad,  but  never  gloomy.  He  had  supped  too  often 
with  sorrow  to  be  a pessimist : he  had  drunk  too  freely  of 
pleasure  to  be  an  optimist.  He  had  no  illusions,  because 
he  believed  in  God  and  his  fellow-man. 

He  bestowed  charity  with  a generous  hand,  but  his 
name  was  seldom  seen  in  print  among  those  of  contributors 
to  public  benefactions.  Privately,  he  gave  liberally  to  half 
a score  of  worthy  charities,  while  the  needy  individuals 
who  received  his  bounty  might  be  literally  counted  by  the 
hundred.  Some  of  them  were  his  perpetual  pensioners. 
Their  names  appear  at  regular  and  frequent  intervals  in 
the  columns  of  a little  private  expense-book  now  in  my 
possession,  which  he  kept  for  some  years  before  his  death. 
One  of  them,  an  Englishman  and  a Protestant,  was  sup- 
ported by  his  bounty  for  years,  sent  to  a hospital  in  his 
declining  days,  and  buried  at  last  at  the  cost  of  his  kindly 
benefactor.  Most  of  them,  however,  were  needy  people  of 
his  own  race  and  religion,  for  these  came  to  him  most 
readily. 

Almost  every  second  entry  on  the  pages  of  that  little 
book,  intended  for  no  eyes  but  his  own,  records  a charity 
or  a loan,  which  was  substantially  the  same  thing.  JNow 
it  is  an  entry,  “Sisters  Good  Shepherd,  $5.”  Then 
another,  “Colored  school,  S.  C.,”  the  same  amount. 
Again,  “ Sisters  from  the  South,  $10.”  Amid  names 
recurring  again  and  again,  there  is  an  occasional  entry  like 
“Catholic  editor,  $5”;  old  publisher,  $5”;  “deaf  mute, 
$3,”  etc., — persons  whose  very  names  he  had  not  learned, 
or  had  forgotten  before  he  could  note  the  expenditure. 
“Benefits”  of  all  sorts  for  theatrical  people,  policemen, 
waiters,  letter-carriers,  coachmen,  etc.,  etc.,  found  in  him 
a regular  patron. 

To  his  employees  he  was  always  kind,  considerate  and 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


387 


liberal.  He  hated  to  discharge  anybody,  and  seldom  or 
never  did  so  until  he  had  secured  him  a new  situation. 
“I’d  give  So-and-so  five  hundred  dollars,”  he  once  said, 
“ if  he  would  only  tender  his  resignation  ; but  he  wont,” 
he  added,  in  whimsically  sorrowful  tone,  “and  of  course 
I can’t  tell  him  to  go.” 

When  he  had  a serious  literary  task  to  do,  such  as  the 
preparation  of  a great  poem  or  speech,  he  would  engage  a 
room  in  a hotel  in  which  he  would  shut  himself  up,  and  say 
to  himself  : “ Boyle  O’Reilly,  you  have  got  this  task  before 
you,  and  you  shall  not  play,  you  shall  not  see  your  dear  wife 
and  children,  you  shall  not  go  to  your  home  until  it  is  fin- 
ished ; you  shall  stay  right  here,  in  this  room,  until  you 
have  done  it.”  And  sometimes  days  would  go  by,  while 
he  would  subject  himself  to  this  strain,  doing  nothing  in 
this  room  where  he  had  immured  himself  but  waiting  for 
the  inspiration  to  come  to  him.  When  the  task  was  fin- 
ished he  would  come  forth  looking  like  a man  who  had 
suffered  a week’s  severe  illness,  and  would  ask  his  friends 
for  their’ criticism,  not  their  eulogy,  of  his  work. 

Mr.  Moseley  has  noticed  a peculiarity  which,  as  he 
shrewdly  guessed,  was  the  result  of  O’Reilly’s  prison 
life. 

When  walking  abstractedly  and  mechanically,  he  always  walked 
a short  distance  and  then  retraced  his  steps,  no  matter  how  wide  a 
stretch  he  had  before  him.  It  was  always  three  paces  forward,  turn, 
and  three  paces  back,  exactly  like  the  restless  turning  of  a lion  in  a 
cage.  One  day  I asked  him,  “Boyle,  what  was  the  length  of  your 
cell  when  you  were  in  prison  ? How  many  paces  ? ” He  said,  ‘ ‘ Three ; 
why  do  you  ask?”  “Because,”  I replied,  “when  you  are  absent- 
minded  you  always  walk  three  paces  forward,  and  then  retrace  your 
steps.” 

It  was  literally  the  only  outward  and  visible  legacy  of 
that  sad  experience, — an  experience  which  had  chastened 
and  molded  the  whole  soul  of  the  man.  In  twenty  years 
of  acquaintance  and  more  than  seven  years  of  close  per- 
sonal intimacy,  in  the  abandon  of  the  club  or  the  cafe , I 
have  never  heard  fall  from  his  lips  a word  which  might 


388 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


not  be  spoken  in  a lady’s  drawing-room.  He  was  neither  a 
saint  nor  a prude,  but  he  was  a man  of  clean  mind  and 
tongue,  and  foul  language  revolted  him  like  the  touch  of 
carrion. 

Another  thing  which  he  hated  almost  as  much  as  vulgar 
speech  was  the  recounting  of  so-called  “ Irish”  stories  and 
all  imitations  of  “ the  brogue.”  He  loved  his  country  and 
its  people  with  a tenderness  almost  incomprehensible  to 
anybody  who  did  not  share  that  love.  Anything  tending 
to  make  either  ridiculous  was  to  him  as  jarring  as  the 
mimicry  of  one’s  mother  would  be  to  another  man.  One 
had  to  be  Irish,  not  only  in  blood  but  also  in  heart  and 
soul,  before  he  ventured  to  amuse  O’Reilly  with  any  jest, 
however  harmless,  at  the  foibles  of  his  countrymen. 

But  how  gladly  he  welcomed  any  praise  of  their  vir- 
tues, how  eagerly  he  jumped  at  the  least  extenuation  of 
their  faults,  how  unreservedly  he  took  to  his  heart  the  man 
who  championed  their  cause  ! “ He  could  not  hate  any 

man  who  loved  Ireland,”  says  Count  Plunkett.  I will 
add,  he  could  embrace  his  bitterest  personal  enemy,  if  that 
enemy  only  served  Ireland. 

To  a nature  such  as  his  there  was  every  reason  why  he 
should  love  his  native  land.  She  was  poor,  oppressed, 
suffering  ; and  he  had  suffered  with  her  and  for  her.  He 
loved  America  with  both  heart  and  head  ; for  it  had  given 
him  freedom,  home,  and  an  honorable  career.  Moreover, 
he  was  a republican  in  all  his  instincts  and  principles,  a 
believer  in  the  People  and  their  right  to  self-government, 
an  unsparing  enemy  of  caste  and  class  distinctions  in  every 
form.  Nobody  has  better  understood  or  paid  truer  tribute 
to  that  which  is  highest  and  best  in  the  American  charac- 
ter, its  courage,  magnanimity,  self-governing  instincts,  and 
love  of  justice. 

The  life  of  John  Boyle  O’Reilly  teaches  anew  the  lesson 
that  the  man  just  and  firm  of  purpose  can  conquer  circum- 
stances. The  failure  of  his  youthful  patriotic  dream  did 
not  discourage  his  brave  heart ; the  degradation  of  the 
prison  did  not  contaminate  his  pure  soul ; poverty  did  not 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


389 


debase  nor  prosperity  destroy  his  manly  independence. 
He  remained  throughout  all  his  life  a brave,  honorable, 
Christian  gentleman,  a loyal  friend,  a generous  foe,  a lover 
of  God  and  of  his  fellow-men. 

It  is  not  easy  to  write  the  last  word  of  a lost  friend  so 
dear  as  this.  Let  the  simple  tribute  of  “ a child,  to  John 
Boyle  O’Reilly,”  written  after  his  death,  speak  the  love 
and  grief  of  the  many  who  hold  his  name  in  grateful 
memory  : 

You  saw  my  leaf  and  praised  it, 

Until  it  grew  a tree. 

You  saw  my  heart  and  raised  it 
To  love  and  grow — for  thee. 

I bring,  dear  poet,  all  I have, — 

My  tree’s  leaf  and  my  heart’s  love. 


POEMS 

OF 

John  Boyle  O’Reilly. 


391 


And  how  did  he  live,  that  dead  man  there, 

In  the  country  churchyard  laid  f 
0,  he  f He  came  for  the  sweet  field  air  ; 

He  was  tired  of  the  town,  and  he  took  no  pride 
In  its  fashion  or  fame . He  returned  and  died 
In  the  place  he  loved,  where  a child  he  played 
With  those  who  have  knelt  by  his  grave  and  prayed . 
He  ruled  no  serfs,  and  he  knew  no  pride  ; 

He  was  one  with  the  workers,  side  by  side  ; 

He  hated  a mill,  and  a mine,  and  a town, 

With  their  fever  of  misery,  struggle,  renown  ; 

He  could  never  believe  but  a man  was  made 
For  a nobler  end  than  the  glory  of  trade. 

For  the  youth  he  mourned  with  an  endless  pity 
Who  were  cast  like  snow  on  the  streets  of  the  city, 

He  was"  weak,  maybe  ; but  he  lost  no  friend ; 

Who  loved  him  once,  loved  on  to  the  end. 

He  mourned,  all  selfish  and  shrewd  endeavor  ; 

But  he  never  injured  a weak  one — never. 

When  censure  was  passed,  he  was  kindly  dumb  ; 

He  was  never  so  wise  but  a fault  would  come  ; 

He  was  never  so  old  that  he  failed  to  enjoy 
The  games  and  the  dreams  he  had  loved  when  a boy . 
He  erred  and  was  sorry  ; but  never  drew 
A trusting  heart  from  the  pure  and  true. 

When  friends  look  back  from  the  years  to  be, 

God  grant  they  may  say  such  things  of  me. 


893 


THE  WONDERFUL  COUNTRY. 


THERE  once  was  a time  when,  as  old  songs  prove  it, 
The  earth  was  not  round,  but  an  endless  plain  ; 

The  sea  was  as  wide  as  the  heavens  above  it — 

Just  millions  of  miles,  and  begin  again. 

And  that  was  the  time — ay,  and  more’s  the  pity 
It  ever  should  end  ! — when  the  world  could  play, 

When  singers  told  tales  of  a crystal  city 
In  a wonderful  country  far  away ! 

But  the  schools  must  come,  with  their  scales  and  measures, 
To  limit  the  visions  and  weigh  the  spells  ; 

They  scoffed  at  the  dreams  and  the  rainbow  treasures, 
And  circled  the  world  in  their  parallels  ; 

They  charted  the  vales  and  the  sunny  meadows, 

Where  a poet  might  ride  for  a year  and  a day  ; 

They  sounded  the  depths  and  they  pierced  the  shadows, 
Of  that  wonderful  country  far  away. 

For  fancies  they  gave  us  their  microscopies  ; 

For  knowledge,  a rubble  of  fact  and  doubt ; 
Wing-broken  and  caged,  like  a bird  from  the  tropics, 
Romance  at  the  wandering  stars  looked  out. 

Cold  Reason,  they  said,  is  the  earthly  Eden  ; 

Go,  study  its  springs,  and  its  ores  assay  ; 

But  fairer  the  flowers  and  fields  forbidden 
Of  that  wonderful  country  far  away. 

They  questioned  the  slumbering  baby’s  laughter, 

And  cautioned  its  elders  to  dream  by  rule  ; 

All  mysteries  past  and  to  come  hereafter 
Were  settled  and  solved  in  their  common  school. 


395 


396 


JOHN  BOYLE  o’EEILLY. 


But  sweeter  the  streams  and  the  wild  birds  singing, 

The  friendships  and  loves  that  were  true  alway  ; 

The  gladness  unseen,  like  a far  bell  ringing, 

In  that  wonderful  country  far  away. 

Nay,  not  in  their  Reason  our  dear  illusion, 

But  truer  than  truths  that  are  measured  and  weighed— 

O land  of  the  spirit ! where  no  intrusion 
From  bookmen  or  doubters  shall  aye  be  made  ! 

There  still  breaks  the  murmuring  sea  to  greet  us 
On  shadowy  valley  and  peaceful  bay  ; 

And  souls  that  were  truest  still  wait  to  meet  us 
In  that  wonderful  country  far  away  ! 


WHAT  IS  GOOD. 


£ £ 


HAT  is  the  real  good  ■?  ” 
I asked  in  musing  mood. 


Order,  said  the  law  court ; 
Knowledge,  said  the  school ; 
Truth,  said  the  wise  man  ; 
Pleasure,  said  the  fool ; 
Love,  said  the  maiden  ; 
Beauty,  said  the  page  ; 
Freedom,  said  the  dreamer  ; 
Home,  said  the  sage  ; 

Fame,  said  the  soldier  ; 
Equity,  the  seer  ; — 


Spake  my  heart  full  sadly : 
“The  answer  is  not  here.” 


Then  within  my  bosom 
Softly  this  I heard  : 

4 4 Each  heart  holds  the  secret : 
Kindness  is  the  word.” 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


397 


THE  PILGRIM  FATHERS. 


“ Let  it  not  be  grievous  unto  you  that  you  have  been  instruments  to 
break  the  ice  for  others  who  come  after  with  less  difficulty ; the  honor 
shall  be  yours  to  the  world’s  end.” — Letter  from  London  to  the  Pil- 
grims, 1622. — (Bradford’s  Hist.) 

“ I charge  you  before  God  that  you  follow  me  no  farther  than  you 
have  seen  me  follow  the  Lord  Jesus  Christ.  If  God  reveal  anything  to 
you  by  any  other  instrument  of  His,  be  as  ready  to  receive  it  as  ever 
you  were  to  receive  any  truth  by  my  ministry;  for  I am  verily  per- 
suaded, I am  very  confident,  the  Lord  has  more  truths  yet  to  break  forth 
out  of  His  holy  word.” — Rev . John  Robinson's  Farewell  to  the  Pilgrims 
at  Leyden,  in  Holland,  1620. 

“ The  hospitals  [of  England]  are  full  of  the  ancient  . . . the  alms- 
houses are  filled  with  old  laborers.  Many  there  are  who  get  their  living 
with  bearing  burdens ; but  more  are  fain  to  burden  the  land  with  their 
whole  bodies.  Neither  come  these  straits  upon  men  always  through 
intemperance,  ill-husbandry,  indiscretion,  etc. ; but  even  the  most  wise, 
sober,  and  discreet  men  go  often  to  the  wall  when  they  have  done  their 
best.  . . . The  rent-taker  lives  on  sweet  morsels,  but  the  rent-payer 
eats  a dry  crust  often  with  watery  eyes.” — Robert  Cushman,  Plymouth , 
1621. — (Chronicles  of  the  Pilgrims.) 

“We  are  all  freeholders  ; the  rent  day  doth  not  trouble  us.” — Letter 
of  William  Hilton  from  Plymouth,  1621. — (Young’s  Chronicles.) 


ONE  righteous  word  for  Law — the  common  will ; 

One  living  truth  of  Faith — God  regnant  still  ; 
One  primal  test  of  Freedom — all  combined  ; 

One  sacred  Revolution — change  of  mind  ; 

One  trust  unfailing  for  the  night  and  need — 

The  tyrant-flower  shall  cast  the  freedom-seed. 

So  held  they  firm,  the  Fathers  aye  to  be, 

From  Home  to  Holland,  Holland  to  the  sea — 
Pilgrims  for  manhood,  in  their  little  ship, 

Hope  in  each  heart  and  prayer  on  every  lip. 

They  could  not  live  by  king-made  codes  and  creeds  ; 
They  chose  the  path  where  every  footstep  bleeds. 
Protesting,  not  rebelling  ; scorned  and  banned  ; 
Through  pains  and  prisons  harried  from  the  land  ; 
Through  double  exile, — till  at  last  they  stand 


398 


JOHN  BOYLE  O REILLY. 


Apart  from  all, — unique,  unworldly,  true, 

Selected  grain  to  sow  the  earth  anew  ; 

A winnowed  part — a saving  remnant  they  ; 

Dreamers  who  work — adventurers  who  pray  ! 

What  vision  led  them  ? Can  we  test  their  prayers  ? 
Who  knows  they  saw  no  empire  in  the  West  ? 

The  later  Puritans  sought  land  and  gold, 

And  all  the  treasures  that  the  Spaniard  told  ; 

What  line  divides  the  Pilgrims  from  the  rest? 

We  know  them  by  the  exile  that  was  theirs  ; 

Their  justice,  faith,  and  fortitude  attest ; 

And  those  long  years  in  Holland,  when  their  band 
Sought  humble  living  in  a stranger’s  land. 

They  saw  their  England  covered  with  a weed 
Of  flaunting  lordship  both  in  court  and  creed. 

With  helpless  hands  they  watched  the  error  grow, 
Pride  on  the  top  and  impotence  below  ; 

Indulgent  nobles,  privileged  and  strong, 

A haughty  crew  to  whom  all  rights  belong  ; 

The  bishops  arrogant,  the  courts  impure, 

The  rich  conspirators  against  the  poor  ; 

The  peasant  scorned,  the  artisan  despised  ; 

The  all-supporting  workers  lowest  prized. 

They  marked  those  evils  deepen  year  by  year  : 

The  pensions  grow,  the  freeholds  disappear, 

Till  England  meant  but  monarch,  prelate,  peer. 

At  last,  the  Conquest ! Now  they  know  the  word : 
The  Saxon  tenant  and  the  Norman  lord  ! 

No  longer  Merrie  England  : now  it  meant 
The  payers  and  the  takers  of  the  rent ; 

And  rent  exacted  not  from  lands  alone — 

All  rights  and  hopes  must  centre  in  the  throne  : 
Law-tithes  for  prayer — their  souls  were  not  their  own  ! 

Then  o’er  the  brim  the  bitter  waters  welled  ; 

The  mind  protested  and  the  soul  rebelled. 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


399 


And  yet,  how  deep  the  bowl,  how  slight  the  flow  ! 

A few  brave  exiles  from  their  country  go  ; 

A few  strong  souls  whose  rich  affections  cling, 

Though  cursed  by  clerics,  hunted  by  the  king. 

Their  last  sad  vision  on  the  Grimsby  strand 
Their  wives  and  children  kneeling  on  the  sand. 

Then  twelve  slow  years  in  Holland — changing  years — 
Strange  ways  of  life— strange  voices  in  their  ears  ; 

The  growing  children  learning  foreign  speech  ; 

And  growing,  too,  within  the  heart  of  each 
A thought  of  further  exile— of  a home 
In  some  far  land — a home  for  life  and  death 
By  their  hands  built,  in  equity  and  faith. 

And  then  the  preparation — the  heart-beat 
Of  wayfarers  who  may  not  rest  their  feet ; 

Their  Pastor’s  blessing — the  farewells  of  some 
Who  stayed  in  Leyden.  Then  the  sea’s  wide  blue  ! — 

“ They  sailed,”  writ  one,  “ and  as  they  sailed  they  knew 
That  they  were  Pilgrims  ! ” 

On  the  wintry  main 

God  flings  their  lives  as  farmers  scatter  grain. 

His  breath  propels  the  winged  seed  afloat ; 

His  tempests  swerve  to  spare  the  fragile  boat  ; 

Before  His  prompting  terrors  disappear  ; 

He  points  the  way  while  patient  seamen  steer  ; 

Till  port  is  reached,  nor  North,  nor  South,  but  Here  ! 

Here,  where  the  shore  was  rugged  as  the  waves, 

Where  frozen  nature  dumb  and  leafless  lay, 

And  no  rich  meadows  bade  the  Pilgrims  stay, 

Was  spread  the  symbol  of  the  life  that  saves  : 

To  conquer  first  the  outer  things  ; to  make 
Their  own  advantage,  unallied,  unbound  ; 

Their  blood  the  mortar,  building  from  the  ground  ; 

Their  cares  the  statutes,  making  all  anew  ; 

To  learn  to  trust  the  many,  not  the  few  ; 


400 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


To  bend  the  mind  to  discipline  ; to  break 
The  bonds  of  old  convention,  and  forget 
The  claims  and  barriers  of  class  ; to  face 
A desert  land,  a strange  and  hostile  race, 

And  conquer  both  to  friendship  by  the  debt 
That  Nature  pays  to  justice,  love,  and  toil. 

Here,  on  this  rock,  and  on  this  sterile  soil, 

Began  the  kingdom  not  of  kings,  but  men  : 

Began  the  making  of  the  world  again. 

Here  centuries  sank,  and  from  the  hither  brink 
A new  world  reached  and  raised  an  old-world  link, 

When  English  hands,  by  wider  vision  taught, 

Threw  down  the  feudal  bars  the  Normans  brought, 

And  here  revived,  in  spite  of  sword  and  stake, 

Their  ancient  freedom  of  the  Wapentake  ! 

Here  struck  the  seed — the  Pilgrims’  roofless  town, 

Where  equal  rights  and  equal  bonds  were  set, 

Where  all  the  people  equal-franchised  met ; 

Where  doom  was  writ  of  privilege  and  crown  ; 

Where  human  breath  blew  all  the  idols  down  ; 

Where  crests  were  nought,  where  vulture  flags  were  furled, 
And  common  men  began  to  own  the  world ! 

All  praise  to  others  of  the  vanguard  then  ! 

To  Spain,  to  France  ; to  Baltimore  and  Penn  ; 

To  Jesuit,  Quaker, — Puritan  and  Priest ; 

Their  toil  be  crowned — their  honors  be  increased  ! 

We  slight  no  true  devotion,  steal  no  fame 
From  other  shrines  to  gild  the  Pilgrims’  name. 

As  time  selects,  we  judge  their  treasures  heaped  ; 

Their  deep  foundations  laid  ; their  harvests  reaped  ; 

Their  primal  mode  of  liberty  ; their  rules 

Of  civil  right ; their  churches,  courts,  and  schools  ; 

Their  freedom’s  very  secret  here  laid  down, — 

The  spring  of  government  is  the  little  town  ! 

They  knew  that  streams  must  follow  to  a spring  ; 

And  no  stream  flows  from  township  to  a king. 


401 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 

Give  praise  to  others,  early-come  or  late, 

For  love  and  labor  on  our  ship  of  state  ; 

But  this  must  stand  above  all  fame  and  zeal : 

The  Pilgrim  Fathers  laid  the  ribs  and  keel. 

On  their  strong  lines  we  base  our  social  health, — 
The  man — the  home — the  town — the  commonwealth  ! 

Unconscious  builders  ? Yea : the  conscious  fail ! 
Design  is  impotent  if  Nature  frown. 

No  deathless  pile  has  grown  from  intellect. 

Immortal  things  have  God  for  architect, 

And  men  are  but  the  granite  He  lays  down. 
Unconscious  ? Yea  ! They  thought  it  might  avail 
To  build  a gloomy  creed  about  their  lives, 

To  shut  out  all  dissent ; but  naught  survives 
Of  their  poor  structure  ; and  we  know  to-day 
Their  mission  was  less  pastoral  than  lay — 

More  Nation-seed  than  Gospel-seed  were  they  ! 

The  Faith  was  theirs  : the  time  had  other  needs. 

The  salt  they  bore  must  sweeten  worldly  deeds. 

There  was  a meaning  in  the  very  wind 

That  blew  them  here  so  few,  so  poor,  so  strong, 

To  grapple  concrete  work,  not  abstract  wrong. 

Their  saintly  Robinson  was  left  behind 
To  teach  by  gentle  memory  ; to  shame 
The  bigot  spirit  and  the  word  of  flame  ; 

To  write  dear  mercy  in  the  Pilgrims’  law  ; 

To  lead  to  that  wide  faith  his  soul  foresaw, — 

That  no  rejected  race  in  darkness  delves  ; 

There  are  no  Gentiles,  but  they  make  themselves  ; 
That  men  are  one  of  blood  and  one  of  spirit ; 

That  one  is  as  the  whole,  and  all  inherit ! 

On  all  the  story  of  a life  or  race, 

The  blessing  of  a good  man  leaves  its  trace. 

Their  Pastor’s  word  at  Leyden  here  sufficed  : 

“ But  follow  me  as  I have  followed  Christ ! ” 

And,  “ I believe  there  is  more  truth  to  come  ! ” 


402 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


O gentle  soul,  what  future  age  shall  sum 
The  sweet  incentive  of  thy  tender  word  ! 

Thy  sigh  to  hear  of  conquest  by  the  sword : 

“ How  happy  to  convert,  and  not  to  slay ! ” 

When  valiant  Standish  killed  the  chief  at  bay. 

To  such  as  thee  the  Fathers  owe  their  fame ; 

The  Nation  owes  a temple  to  thy  name. 

Thy  teaching  made  the  Pilgrims  kindly,  free, — 
All  that  the  later  Puritans  should  be. 

Thy  pious  instinct  marks  their  destiny. 

Thy  love  won  more  than  force  or  arts  adroit — 

It  writ  and  kept  the  deed  with  Massasoit ; 

It  earned  the  welcome  Samoset  expressed  ; 

It  lived  again  in  Eliot’s  loving  breast ; 

It  filled  the  Compact  which  the  Pilgrims  signed — 
Immortal  scroll ! the  first  where  men  combined 
From  one  deep  lake  of  common  blood  to  draw 
All  rulers,  rights,  and  potencies  of  law. 

When  waves  of  ages  have  their  motive  spent 
Thy  sermon  preaches  in  this  Monument, 

Where  Virtue,  Courage,  Law,  and  Learning  sit ; 
Calm  Faith  above  them,  grasping  Holy  Writ ; 
White  hand  upraised  o’er  beauteous,  trusting  eyes, 
And  pleading  finger  pointing  to  the  skies  ! 

The  past  is  theirs — the  future  ours  ; and  we 
Must  learn  and  teach.  Oh,  may  our  record  be 
Like  theirs,  a glory,  symbolled  in  a stone, 

To  speak  as  this  speaks,  of  our  labors  done. 

They  had  no  model ; but  they  left  us  one. 

Severe  they  were  ; but  let  him  cast  the  stone 
Who  Christ’s  dear  love  dare  measure  with  his  own. 
Their  strict  professions  were  not  cant  nor  pride. 
Who  calls  them  narrow,  let  his  soul  be  wide  ! 
Austere,  exclusive — ay,  but  with  their  faults, 

Their  golden  probity  mankind  exalts. 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


403 


They  never  lied  in  practice,  peace,  or  strife  ; 

They  were  no  hypocrites  ; their  faith  was  clear  ; 

They  feared  too  much  some  sins  men  ought  to  fear : 

The  lordly  arrogance  and  avarice, 

And  vain  frivolity’s  besotting  vice  ; 

The  stern  enthusiasm  of  their  life 

Impelled  too  far,  and  weighed,poor  nature  down  ; 

They  missed  God’s  smile,  perhaps,  to  watch  His  frown. 
But  he  who  digs  for  faults  shall  resurrect 
Their  manly  virtues  born  of  self-respect. 

How  sum  their  merits  ? They  were  true  and  brave  ; 
They  broke  no  compact  and  they  owned  no  slave  ; 
They  had  no  servile  order,  no  dumb  throat ; 

They  trusted  first  the  universal  vote  ; 

The  first  were  they  to  practice  and.  instill 
The  rule  of  law  and  not  the  rule  of  will ; 

They  lived  one  noble  test : who  would  be  freed 
Must  give  up  all  to  follow  duty’s  lead. 

They  made  no  revolution  based  on  blows, 

But  taught  one  truth  that  all  the  planet  knows, 

That  all  men  think  of,  looking  on  a throne — 

The  people  may  be  trusted  with  their  own  ! 


In  every  land  wherever  might  holds  sway 
The  Pilgrims’  leaven  is  at  work  to-day. 

The  Mayflower’s  cabin  was  the  chosen  womb 
Of  light  predestined  for  the  nations’  gloom. 

God  grant  that  those  who  tend  the  sacred  flame 
May  worthy  prove  of  their  Forefathers’  name. 

More  light  has  come, — more  dangers,  too,  perplex : 
New  prides,  new  greeds,  our  high  condition  vex. 
The  Fathers  fled  from  feudal  lords*  and  made 
A freehold  state  ; may  we  not  retrograde 
To  lucre- lords  and  hierarchs  of  trade. 

May  we,  as  they  did,  teach  in  court  and  school, 
There  must  be  classes,  but  no  class  shall  rule  : 

The  sea  is  sweet,  and  rots  not  like  the  pool. 


404 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


Though  vast  the  token  of  our  future  glory, 

Though  tongue  of  man  hath  told  not  such  a story, — 
Surpassing  Plato’s  dream,  More’s  phantasy, — still  we 
Have  no  new  principles  to  keep  us  free. 

As  Nature  works  with  changeless  grain  on  grain, 

The  truths  the  Fathers  taught  we  need  again. 

Depart  from  this,  though  we  may  crowd  our  shelves, 
W ith  codes  and  precepts  for  each  lapse  and  flaw, 

And  patch  our  moral  leaks  with  statute  law, 

We  cannot  be  protected  from  ourselves  ! 

Still  must  we  keep  in  every  stroke  and  vote 
The  law  of  conscience  that  the  Pilgrims  wrote  ; 

Our  seal  their  secret : Liberty  can  be  ; 

The  State  is  freedom  if  the  Town  is  free. 

The  death  of  nations  in  their  work  began  ; 

They  sowed  the  seed  of  federated  Man. 

Dead  nations  were  but  robber-holds  ; and  we 
The  first  battalion  of  Humanity  ! 

All  living  nations,  while  our  eagles  shine, 

One  after  one,  shall  swing  into  our  line  ; 

Our  freeborn  heritage  shall  be  the  guide 
And  bloodless  order  of  their  regicide  ; 

The  sea  shall  join,  not  limit  ; mountains  stand 
Dividing  farm  from  farm,  not  land  from  land. 

O People’s  Voice  ! when  farthest  thrones  shall  hear  ; 
When  teachers  own  ; when  thoughtful  rabbis  know  ; 
When  artist  minds  in  world-wide  symbol  show  ; 
When  serfs  and  soldiers  their  mute  faces  raise  ; 

When  priests  on  grand  cathedral  altars  praise  ; 

When  pride  and  arrogance  shall  disappear, 

The  Pilgrims’  Vision  is  accomplished  here ! 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


405 


FROM  THE  HEIGHTS. 


[Read  at  the  opening  Banquet  of  the  American  Catholic  University. 
Washington,  Nov.  13,  1889.] 


COME  to  me  for  wisdom,”  said  the  mountain  ; 

“ In  the  valley  and  the  plain 
There  is  Knowledge  dimmed  with  sorrow  in  the  gain  ; 
There  is  Effort,  with  its  hope  like  a fountain  ; 

There,  the  chained  rebel,  Passion  ; 

Laboring  Strength  and  fleeting  Fashion  ; 

There,  Ambition’ s leaping  flame, 

And  the  iris-crown  of  Fame  ; 

But  those  gains  are  dear  forever 
Won  from  loss  and  pain  and  fever. 

Nature’s  gospel  never  changes  : 

Every  sudden  force  deranges  ; 

Blind  endeavor  is  not  wise  : 

Wisdom  enters  through  the  eyes  ; 

And  the  seer  is  the  knower, 

Is  the  doer  and  the  sower. 

“ Come  to  me  for  riches,”  said  the  peak  ; 

“ I am  leafless,  cold  and  calm  ; 

But  the  treasures  of  the  lily  and  the  palm — 

They  are  mine  to  bestow  on  those  who  seek. 

I am  gift  and  I am  giver 
To  the  verdured  fields  below, 

As  the  motherhood  of  snow 
Daily  gives  the  new-born  river. 

As  a watcher  on  a tower, 

Listening  to  the  evening  hour, 

Sees  the  roads  diverge  and  blend, 

Sees  the  wandering  currents  end 
Where  the  moveless  waters  shine 
On  the  far  horizon  line — 


4 u6 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


All  the  storied  Past  is  mine ; 

All  its  strange  beliefs  still  clinging  ; 

All  its  singers  and  their  singing  ; 

All  the  paths  that  led  astray, 

All  the  meteors  once  called  day  ; 

All  the  stars  that  rose  to  shine — 

Come  to  me — for  all  are  mine  ! 

4 ‘Come  to  me  for  safety,”  said  the  height ; 
“ In  the  future  as  the  past, 

Road  and  river  end  at  last 
Like  a raindrop  in  the  ever- circling  sea. 
Who  shall  know  by  lessened  sight 
Where  the  gain  and  where  the  loss 
In  the  desert  they  must  cross  ? 

Guides  who  lead  their  charge  from  ills, 
Passing  soon  from  town  to  town, 

Through  the  forest  and  the  down, 

Take  direction  from  the  hills  ; 

Those  wbo  range  a wider  land, 

Higher  climb  until  they  stand 
Where  the  past  and  future  swing 
Like  a far  blue  ocean -ring  ; 

Those  who  sail  from  land  afar 
Leap  from  mountain-top  to  star. 

Higher  still,  from  star  to  God, 

Have  the  spirit-pilots  trod, 

Setting  lights  for  mind  and  soul 
That  the  ships  may  reach  the  goal. 

“ They  shall  safely  steer  who  see : 

Sight  is  wisdom.  Come  tome!” 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 

MAYFLOWER. 


407 


THUNDER  our  thanks  to  her — guns,  hearts,  and  lips ! 
Cheer  from  the  ranks  to  her, 

Shout  from  the  banks  to  her — 

Mayflower ! Foremost  and  best  of  our  ships. 

Mayflower ! Twice  in  the  national  story 
Thy  dear  name  in  letters  of  gold — 

Woven  in  texture  that  never  grows  old — 

Winning  a home  and  winning  glory  ! 

Sailing  the  years  to  us,  welcomed  for  aye  ; 

Cherished  for  centuries,  dearest  to-day. 

Every  heart  throbs  for  her,  every  flag  dips — 

Mayflower ! First  and  last — best  of  our  ships  ! 

White  as  a seagull,  she  swept  the  long  passage. 

True  as  the  homing-bird  flies  with  its  message. 

Love  her?  O,  richer  than  silk  every  sail  of  her. 

Trust  her  ? More  precious  than  gold  every  nail  of  her. 
Write  we  down  faithfully  every  man’s  part  in  her ; 

Greet  we  all  gratefully  every  true  heart  in  her. 

More  than  a name  to  us,  sailing  the  fleetest, 

Symbol  of  that  which  is  purest  and  sweetest. 

More  than  a keel  to  us,  steering  the  straightest : 

Emblem  of  that  which  is  freest  and  greatest. 

More  than  a dove-bosomed  sail  to  the  windward : 

Flame  passing  on  while  the  night-clouds  fly  hindward. 

Kiss  every  plank  of  her  ! None  shall  take  rank  of  her  ; 
Frontward  or  weatherward,  none  can  eclipse. 

Thunder  our  thanks  to  her  ! Cheer  from  the  banks  to  her ! 
Mayflower ! Foremost  and  best  of  our  ships  ! 


408 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


CRISPUS  ATTUCKS. 


Negro  Patriot — Killed  in  Boston,  March  5,  1770. 


Read  at  the  Dedication  of  the  Crispus  Attucks  Monument 
in  Boston , November  14,  1888. 


The  Boston  Massacre,  March  5,  1770,  may  be  regarded  as  the  first 
act  in  the  drama  of  the  American  Revolution.  “ From  that  moment  ” 
said  Daniel  Webster,  “ we  may  date  the  severance  of  the  British  Em- 
pire.” The  presence  of  the  British  soldiers  in  King  Street  excited  the 

patriotic  indignation  of  the  people Led  by  Crispus  Attucks, 

the  mulatto  slave,  and  shouting,  “ The  way  to  get  rid  of  these  soldiers 
is  to  attack  the  main  guard  ; strike  at  the  root  ; this  is  the  nest,”  with 
more  valor  than  discretion,  they  rushed  to  King  Street,  and  were  fired 
upon  by  Captain  Preston’s  company.  Crispus  Attucks  was  the  first  to 
fall  ; he  and  Samuel  Gray  and  Jonas  Caldwell  were  killed  on  the  spot. 
Samuel  Maverick  and  Patrick  Carr  were  mortally  wounded.- -Histori- 
cal Research , by  George  Livermore— Mass.  Hist.  Society. 


■TTTHERE  shall  we  seek  for  a hero,  and  where  shall  we 
VV  find  a story  ? 

Our  laurels  are  wreathed  for  conquest,  our  songs  for  com- 
pleted glory. 

But  we  honor  a shrine  unfinished,  a column  uncapped  with 
pride, 

If  we  sing  the  deed  that  was  sown  like  seed  when  Crispus 
Attucks  died. 


Shall  we  take  for  a sign  this  Negro-slave  with  unfamiliar 
name — 

With  his  poor  companions,  nameless  too,  till  their  lives 
leaped  forth  in  flame  ? 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


409 


Yea,  surely,  tlie  verdict  is  not  for  us,  to  render  or  deny  ; 

We  can  only  interpret  the  symbol ; God  chose  these  men 
to  die — 

As  teachers  and  types,  that  to  humble  lives  may  chief 
award  be  made ; 

That  from  lowly  ones,  and  rejected  stones,  the  temple’s 
base  is  laid  ! 

When  the  bullets  leaped  from  the  British  guns,  no  chance 
decreed  their  aim : 

Men  see  what  the  royal  hirelings  saw — a multitude  and  a 
flame ; 

But  beyond  the  flame,  a mystery  ; five  dying  men  in  the 
street, 

While  the  streams  of  severed  races  in  the  well  of  a nation 
meet ! 

O,  blood  of  the  people  ! changeless  tide,  through  century, 
creed  and  race ! 

Still  one  as  the  sweet  salt  sea  is  one,  though  tempered  by 
sun  and  place  ; 

The  same  in  the  ocean  currents,  and  the  same  in  the  shel- 
tered seas  ; 

Forever  the  fountain  of  common  hopes  and  kindly  sympa- 
thies ; 

Indian  and  Negro,  Saxon  and  Celt,  Teuton  and  Latin  and 
Gaul — 

Mere  surface  shadow  and  sunshine ; while  the  sounding 
unifies  all ! 

One  love,  one  hope,  one  duty  theirs  ! No  matter  the  time 
or  ken, 

There  never  was  separate  heart-beat  in  all  the  races  of  men  ! 

But  alien  is  one — of  class,  not  race — he  has  drawn  the 
line  for  himself ; 

His  roots  drink  life  from  inhuman  soil,  from  garbage  of 
pomp  and  pelf ; 


410  JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 

His  heart  beats  not  with  the  common  beat,  he  has  changed 
his  life-stream’s  hue ; 

He  deems  his  flesh  to  be  finer  flesh,  he  boasts  that  his 
blood  is  blue : 

Patrician,  aristocrat,  tory — whatever  his  age  or  name, 

To  the  people’s  rights  and  liberties,  a traitor  ever  the 
same. 

The  natural  crowd  is  a mob  to  him,  their  prayer  a vulgar 
rhyme ; 

The  freeman’s  speech  is  sedition,  and  the  patriot’s  deed  a 
crime. 

Wherever  the  race,  the  law,  the  land, — whatever  the  time, 
or  throne, 

The  tory  is  always  a traitor  to  every  class  but  his 
own. 

Thank  God  for  a land  where  pride  is  clipped,  where  arro- 
gance stalks  apart ; 

Where  law  and  song  and  loathing  of  wrong  are  words  of 
the  common  heart ; 

Where  the  masses  honor  straightforward  strength,  and 
know,  when  veins  are  bled, 

That  the  bluest  blood  is  putrid  blood — that  the  people’s 
blood  is  red ! 


And  honor  to  Crispus  Attucks,  who  was  leader  and  voice 
that  day  ; 

The  first  to  defy,  and  the  first  to  die,  with  Maverick,  Carr, 
and  Gray. 

Call  it  riot  or  revolution,  his  hand  first  clenched  at  the 
crown  ; 

His  feet  were  the  first  in  perilous  place  to  pull  the  king’s 
flag  down  ; 

His  breast  was  the  first  one  rent  apart  that  liberty’s  stream 
might  flow  ; 

For  our  freedom  now  and  forever,  his  head  was  the  first  laid 
low. 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES.  411 

Call  it  riot  or  revolution,  or  mob  or  crowd,  as  you 
may, 

Such  deaths  have  been  seed  of  nations,  such  lives  shall  be 
honored  for  aye. 

They  were  lawless  hinds  to  the  lackeys — but  martyrs  to 
Paul  Revere  ; 

And  Otis  and  Hancock  and  Warren  read  spirit  and  mean- 
ing clear. 

Ye  teachers,  answer : what  shall  be  done  when  just  men 
stand  in  the  dock  ; 

When  the  caitiff  is  robed  in  ermine,  and  his  sworders  keep 
the  lock ; 

When  torture  is  robbed  of  clemency,  and  guilt  is  without 
remorse  ; 

When  tiger  and  panther  are  gentler  than  the  Christian 
slaver’s  curse ; 

When  law  is  a satrap’s  menace,  and  order  the  drill  of  a 
horde — 

Shall  the  people  kneel  to  be  trampled,  and  bare  their  neck 
to  the  sword  ? 

Not  so  ! by  this  Stone  of  Resistance  that  Boston  raises 
here  ! 

By  the  old  North  Church’s  lantern,  and  the  watching  of 
Paul  Revere  ! 

Not  so  ! by  Paris  of  ’Ninety-Three,  and  Ulster  of  ’Ninety- 
Eight  ! 

By  Toussaint  in  St.  Domingo  ! by  the  horror  of  Delhi’s 
gate  ! 

By  Adams’s  word  to  Hutchinson  ! by  the  tea  that  is  brew- 
ing still  ! 

By  the  farmers  that  met  the  soldiers  at  Concord  and  Bun- 
ker Hill ! 

Not  so  ! not  so  ! Till  the  world  is  done,  the  shadow  of 
wrong  is  dread ; 

The  crowd  that  bends  to  a lord  to-day,  to-morrow  shall 
strike  him  dead. 


412 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


There  is  only  one  thing  changeless  : the  earth  steals  from 
under  our  feet, 

The  times  and  manners  are  passing  moods,  and  the  laws 
are  incomplete  ; 

There  is  only  one  thing  changes  not,  one  word  that  still 
survives — 

The  slave  is  the  wretch  who  wields  the  lash,  and  not  the 
man  in  gyves ! 

There  is  only  one  test  of  contract : is  it  willing,  is  it 
good  ? 

There  is  only  one  guard  of  equal  right : the  unity  of 
blood ; 

There  is  never  a mind  unchained  and  true  that  class  or  race 
allows  ; 

There  is  never  a law  to  be  obeyed  that  reason  disavows  ; 

There  is  never  a legal  sin  but  grows  to  the  law’s  disaster, 

The  master  shall  drop  the  whip,  and  the  slave  shall  enslave 
the  master  ! 

0,  Planter  of  seed  in  thought  and  deed  has  the  year  of 
right  revolved, 

And  brought  the  Negro  patriot’s  cause  with  its  problem  to 
be  solved  % 

His  blood  streamed  first  for  the  building,  and  through  all 
the  century’s  years, 

Our  growth  of  story  and  fame  of  glory  are  mixed  with  his 
blood  and  tears. 

He  lived  with  men  like  a soul  condemned — derided, 
defamed,  and  mute  ; 

Debased  to  the  brutal  level,  and  instructed  to  be  a brute. 

His  virtue  was  shorn  of  benefit,  his  industry  of  reward  ; 

His  love  ! — O men,  it  were  mercy  to  have  cut  affection’s 
cord  ; 

Through  the  night  of  his  woe,  no  pity  save  that  of  his 
fellow-slave  ; 

For  the  wage  of  his  priceless  labor,  the  scourging  block 
and  the  grave ! 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES.  413 

And  now,  is  the  tree  to  blossom  ? Is  the  bowl  of  agony- 
filled? 

Shall  the  price  be  paid,  and  the  honor  said,  and  the  word 
of  outrage  stilled  ? 

And  we  who  have  toiled  for  freedom’s  law,  have  we  sought 
for  freedom’ s soul  ? 

Have  we  learned  at  last  that  human  right  is  not  a part  but 
the  whole  ? 

That  nothing  is  told  while  the  clinging  sin  remains  part 
unconfessed  ? 

That  the  health  of  the  nation  is  periled  if  one  man  be 
oppressed  ? 

Has  he  learned — the  slave  from  the  rice-swamps,  whose 
children  were  sold — has  he, 

With  broken  chains  on  his  limbs,  and  the  cry  in  his  blood, 
“I  am  free  ! ” 

Has  he  learned  through  affliction’s  teaching  what  ourCris- 
pus  Attucks  knew — 

When  Right  is  stricken,  the  white  and  black  are  counted 
as  one,  not  two  ? 

Has  he  learned  that  his  century  of  grief  was  worth  a thou- 
sand years 

In  blending  his  life  and  blood  with  ours,  and  that  all  his 
toils  and  tears 

Were  heaped  and  poured  on  him  suddenly,  to  give  him  a 
right  to  stand 

From  the  gloom  of  African  forests,  in  the  blaze  of  the 
freest  land  ? 

That  his  hundred'  years  have  earned  for  him  a place  in  the 
human  van 

Which  others  have  fought  for  and  thought  to?  since  the 
world  of  wrong  began  ? 

For  this,  shall  his  vengeance  change  to  love,  and  his  retri- 
bution burn, 

Defending  the  right,  the  weak  and  the  poor,  when*  each 
shall  have  his  turn  ; 


414  JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 

For  this,  shall  he  set  his  woeful  past  afloat  on  the  stream 
of  night ; 

For  this,  he  forgets  as  we  all  forget  when  darkness  turns 
to  light ; 

For  this,  he  forgives  as  we  all  forgive  when  wrong  has 
changed  to  right. 

And  so,  must  we  come  to  the  learning  of  Boston’s  lesson 
to-day ; 

The  moral  that  Crispus  At  tucks  taught  in  the  old  heroic 
way  ; 

God  made  mankind  to  be  one  in  blood,  as  one  in  spirit  and 
thought ; 

And  so  great  a boon,  by  a brave  man’s  death,  is  never 
dearly  bought ! 


THE  EXILE  OF  THE  GAEL. 


[Read  at  the  150th  anniversary  of  the  Irish  Charitable  Society,  Boston, 
March  17,  1887.] 


IT  is  sweet  to  rejoice  for  a day, — 

For  a day  that  is  reached  at  last ! 

It  is  well  for  wanderers  in  new  lands, 

Slow  climbers  toward  a lofty  mountain  pass, 

Yearning  with  hearts  and  eyes  strained  ever  upward, 

To  pause,  and  rest,  on  the  summit,— 

To  stand  between  two  limitless  outlooks, — 

Behind  them,  a winding  path  through  familiar  pains  and 
ventures  ; 

Before  them,  the  streams  unbridged  and  the  vales  untrav- 
eled. 

What  shall  they  do  nobler  than  mark  their  passage, 

With  kindly  hearts,  mayhap  for  kindred  to  follow? 

What  shall  they  do  wiser  than  pile  a cairn 


'HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


415 


With  stones  from  the  wayside,  that  their  tracks  and  names 

Be  not  blown  from  the  hills  like  sand,  and  their  story  be 
lost  forever  ? 

“ Hither,”  the  cairn  shall  tell,  “Hither  they  came  and 
rested  ! ” 

“ Whither  \ ” the  searcher  shall  ask,  with  questioning  eyes 
on  their  future. 

Hither  and  Whither ! O Maker  of  Nations  ! Hither  and 
Whither  the  sea  speaks, 

Heaving  ; the  forest  speaks,  dying  ; the  Summer  whispers, 

Like  a sentry  giving  up  the  watchword,  to  the  muffled 
Winter. 

Hither  and  Whither ! the  Earth  calls  wheeling  to  the  Sun  ; 

And  like  ships  on  the  deep  at  night,  the  stars  interflash  the 
signal. 

Hither  and  Whither,  the  exiles’  cairn  on  the  hill  speaks,— 

Yea,  as  loudly  as  the  sea  and  the  earth  and  the  stars. 

The  heart  is  earth’s  exile  : the  soul  is  heaven’s  ; 

And  God  has  made  no  higher  mystery  for  stars. 

Hither — from  home  ! sobs  the  torn  flower  on  the  river  : 

Wails  the  river  itself  as  it  enters  the  bitter  ocean  ; 

Moans  the  iron  in  the  furnace  at  the  premonition  of  melting ; 

Cries  the  scattered  grain  in  Spring  at  the  passage  of  the 
harrow. 

In  the  iceberg  is  frozen  the  rain’s  dream  of  exile  from  the 
fields  ; 

The  shower  falls  sighing  for  the  opaline  hills  of  cloud  ; 

And  the  clouds  on  the  bare  mountains  weep  their  daughter- 
love  for  the  sea. 

Exile  is  God’s  alchemy  ! Nations  he  forms  like  metals, — 

Mixing  their  strength  and  their  tenderness  ; 

Tempering  pride  with  shame  and  victory  with  affliction  ; 

Meting  their  courage,  their  faith  and  their  fortitude, — 

Timing  their  genesis  to  the  world’s  needs! 


416 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


“What  have  ye  brought  to  our  Nation-building,  Sons  of 
the  Gael  ? 

What  is  your  burden  or  guerdon  from  old  Innisfail  ? 

Here  build  we  higher  and  deeper  than  men  ever  built 
before  ; 

And  we  raise  no  Shinar  tower,  but  a temple  forevermore. 

What  have  ye  brought  from  Erin  your  hapless  land  could 
spare  \ 

Her  tears,  defeats,  and  miseries  ? Are  these,  indeed,  your 
share  % 

Are  the  mother’s  caoine  and  the  banshee's  cry  your  music 
for  our  song  % 

Have  ye  joined  our  feast  with  a withered  wreath  and  a 
memory  of  wrong  ? 

With  a broken  sword  and  treason-flag,  from  your  Banbaof 
the  Seas  ? 

O,  where  in  our  House  of  Triumph  shall  hang  such  gifts  as 
these  ?” 

O,  Soul,  wing  forth ! what  answer  across  the  main  is 
heard  % 

From  burdened  ships  and  exiled  lips, — write  down,  write 
down  the  word ! 

“No  treason  we  bring  from  Erin  — nor  bring  we  shame  nor 
guilt ! 

The  sword  we  hold  may  be  broken,  but  we  have  not 
dropped  the  hilt ! 

The  wreath  we  bear  to  Columbia  is  twisted  of  thorns,  not 
bays ; 

And  the  songs  we  sing  are  saddened  by  thoughts  of  deso- 
late days. 

. But  the  hearts  we  bring  for  Freedom  are  washed  in  the 
surge  of  tears ; 

And  we  claim  our  right  by  a People’s  fight  outliving  a 
thousand  years  ! ” 

“What  bring  ye  else  to  the  Building  ? ” 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


417 


“ O,  willing  hands  to  toil ; 

Strong  natures  tuned  to  the  harvest-song,  and  bound  to  the 
kindly  soil ; 

Bold  pioneers  for  the  wilderness,  defenders  in  the  field, — 

The  sons  of  a race  of  soldiers  who  never  learned  to  yield. 

Young  hearts  with  duty  brimming — as  faith  makes  sweet 
the  due  ; 

Their  truth  to  me  their  witness  they  cannot  be  false  to 
you!  ” 

“ What  send  ye  else,  old  Mother,  to  raise  our  mighty  wall  ? 

For  we  must  build  against  Kings  and  Wrongs  a fortress 
never  to  fall  ? ’ ’ 

“I  send  you  in  cradle  and  bosom,  wise  brain  and  eloquent 
tongue, 

Whose  crowns  should  engild  my  crowning,  whose  songs  for 
me  should  be  sung. 

O,  flowers  unblowm,  from  lonely  fields,  my  daughters  with 
hearts  aglow, 

With  pulses  warm  with  sympathies,  with  bosoms  pure  as 
snow, — 

I smile  through  tears  as  the  clouds  unroll— my  widening 
river  that  runs ! 

My  lost  ones  grown  in  radiant  growth — proud  mothers  of 
free-born  sons  ! 

My  seed  of  sacrifice  ripens  apace  ! The  Tyrant’s  cure  is 
disease  : 

My  strength  that  was  dead  like  a forest  is  spread  beyond 
the  distant  seas  ! ” 

“ It  is  well,  aye  well,  old  Erin  ! The  sons  you  give  to  me 

Are  symbolled  long  in  flag  and  song — your  Sunburst  on  the 
Sea  ! 

All  mine  by  the  chrism  of  Freedom,  still  yours  by  their 
love’s  belief  ; 

And  truest  to  me  shall  the  tenderest  be  in  a suffering 
mother’s  grief. 


418  JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 

Their  loss  is  the  change  of  the  wave  to  the  cloud,  of  the 
dew  to  the  river  and  main  ; 

Their  hope  shall  persist  through  the  sea,  and  the  mist,  and 
thy  streams  shall  be  filled  again. 

As  the  smolt  of  the  salmon  go  down  to  the  sea,  and  as 
surely  come  back  to  the  river, 

Their  love  shall  be  yours  while  your  sorrow  endures,  for 
God  guardeth  His  right  forever  ! ” 


THREE  GRAVES. 


HOW  did  he  live,  this  dead  man  here, 

With  the  temple  above  his  grave  ? 

He  lived  as  a great  one,  from  cradle  to  bier 
He  was  nursed  in  luxury,  trained  in  pride, 

When  the  wish  was  born,  it  was  gratified  ; 
Without  thanks  he  took,  without  heed  he  gave. 
The  common  man  was  to  him  a clod 
From  whom  he  was  far  as  a demigod. 

His  duties  ? To  see  that  his  rents  were  paid  ; 

His  pleasure  % To  know  that  the  crowd  obeyed. 
His  pulse,  if  you  felt  it,  throbbed  apart, 

With  a separate  stroke  from  the  people’s  heart. 
But  whom  did  he  love,  and  whom  did  he  bless  ? 
Was  the  life  of  him  more  than  a man’s,  or  less  ? 

I know  not.  He  died.  There  was  none  to  blame, 
And  as  few  to  weep  ; but  these  marbles  came 
For  the  temple  that  rose  to  preserve  his  name  ! 

How  did  he  live,  that  other  dead  man, 

From  the  graves  apart  and  alone  ? 

As  a great  one,  too  ? Yes,  this  was  one 
Who  lived  to  labor  and  study  and  plan. 

The  earth’s  deep  thought  he  loved  to  reveal ; 

He  banded  the  breast  of  the  land  with  steel ; 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


419 


The  thread  of  his  toil  he  never  broke  ; 

He  filled  the  cities  with  wheels  and  smoke, 

And  workers  by  day  and  workers  by  night, 

For  the  day  was  too  short  for  his  vigor’s  flight. 

Too  firm  was  he  to  be  feeling  and  giving : 

For  labor,  for  gain,  was  a life  worth  living. 

He  worshiped  Industry,  dreamt  of  her,  sighed  for  her. 
Potent  he  grew  by  her,  famous  he  died  for  her. 

They  say  he  improved  the  world  in  his  time, 

That  his  mills  and  mines  were  a work  sublime. 

When  he  died — the  laborers  rested,  and  sighed  ; 
Which  was  it — because  he  had  lived,  or  died  ? 

And  how  did  he  live,  that  dead  man  there, 

In  the  country  churchyard  laid  \ 

O,  he  % He  came  for  the  sweet  field  air  ; 

He  was  tired  of  the  town,  and  he  took  no  pride 
In  its  fashion  or  fame.  He  returned  and  died 
In  the  place  he  loved,  where  a child  he  played 
With  those  who  have  knelt  by  his  grave  and  prayed. 
He  ruled  no  serfs,  and  he  knew  no  pride  ; 

He  was  one  with  the  workers  side  by  side  ; 

He  hated  a mill,  and  a mine,  and  a town, 

With  their  fever  of  misery,  struggle,  renown  ; 

He  could  never  believe  but  a man  was  made 
For  a nobler  end  than  the  glory  of  trade. 

For  the  youth  he  mourned  with  an  endless  pity 
Who  were  cast  like  snow  on  the  streets  of  the  city. 

He  was  weak,  maybe  ; but  he  lost  no  friend  ; 

Who  loved  him  once,  loved  on  to  the  end. 

He  mourned  all  selfish  and  shrewd  endeavor  ; 

But  he  never  injured  a weak  one — never. 

When  censure  was  passed,  he  was  kindly  dumb  ; 

He  was  never  so  wise  but  a fault  would  come  ; 

He  was  never  so  old  that  he  failed  to  enjoy 
The  games  and  the  dreams  he  had  loved  when  a boy. 
He  erred,  and  was  sorry  ; but  never  drew 
A trusting  heart  from  the  pure  and  true. 


420 


.TOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


When  friends  look  back  from  the  years  to  be, 
God  grant  they  may  say  such  things  of  me. 


AN  ART  MASTER. 


HE  gathered  cherry-stones,  and  carved  them  quaintly 
Into  fine  semblances  of  flies  and  flowers  ; 

With  subtle  skill,  he  even  imaged  faintly 
The  forms  of  tiny  maids  and  ivied  towers. 

His  little  blocks  he  loved  to  file  and  polish  ; 

And  ampler  means  he  asked  not,  but  despised. 

All  art  but  cherry-stones  he  would  abolish, 

For  then  his  genius  would  be  rightly  prized. 

For  such  rude  hands  as  dealt  with  wrongs  and  passions 
And  throbbing  hearts,  he  had  a pitying  smile  ; 

Serene  his  way  through  surging  years  and  fashions, 
While  Heaven  gave  him  his  cherry-stones  and  file ! 


LIBERTY  LIGHTING  THE  WORLD. 


MAJESTIC  warder  by  the  Nation’s  gate, 

Spike-crowned,  flame-armed  like  Agony  or  Glory, 
Holding  the  tablets  of  some  unknown  law, 

With  gesture  eloquent  and  mute  as  Fate, — 

We  stand  about  thy  feet  in  solemn  awe, 

Like  desert-tribes  who  seek  their  Sphinx’s  story, 

And  question  thee  in  spirit  and  in  speech  : 

What  art  thou  ? Whence  ? What  comest  thou  to  teach 
What  vision  hold  those  introverted  eyes 
Of  Revolutions  framed  in  centuries  ? 

Thy  flame  — what  threat,  or  guide  for  sacred  way  ? 

Thy  tablet  — what  commandment  ? What  Sinai  ? 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES.  421 

Lo!  as  the  waves  make  murmur  at  thy  base, 

We  watch  the  somber  grandeur  of  thy  face, 

And  ask  thee — what  thou  art. 

I am  Libekty, — God’s  daughter! 

My  symbols — a law  and  a torch  ; 

Not  a sword  to  threaten  slaughter, 

Nor  a flame  to  dazzle  or  scorch  ; 

But  a light  that  the  world  may  see, 

And  a truth  that  shall  make  men  free. 

I am  the  sister  of  Duty, 

And  I am  the  sister  of  Faith  ; 

To-day,  adored  for  my  beauty, 

To-morrow,  led  forth  to  death. 

I am  she  whom  ages  prayed  for  ; 

Heroes  suffered  undismayed  for  ; 

Whom  the  martyrs  were  betrayed  for ! 

I am  a herald  republican  from  a land  grown  free  under  feet 
of  kings  ; 

My  radiance,  lighting  a century’s  span,  a sister’s  love  to 
Columbia  brings. 

I am  a beacon  to  ships  at  sea,  and  a warning  to  watchers 
ashore  ; 

In  palace  and  prairie  and  street,  through  me,  shall  be 
heard  the  ominous  ocean-roar. 

I am  a threat  to  oppression’s  sin,  and  a pharos-light  to  the 
weak  endeavor  ; 

Mine  is  the  love  that  men  may  win,  but  lost — it  is  lost  forever ! 

Mine  are  the  lovers  who  deepest  pain,  with  weapon  and 
word  still  wounding  sore  ; 

With  sanguined  hands  they  caress  and  chain,  and  crown 
and  trample — and  still  adore  ! 

Cities  have  flamed  in  my  name,  and  Death  has  reaped  wild 
harvest  of  joy  and  peace, 

Till  mine  is  a voice  that  stills  the  breath,  my  advent  an 
omen  that  love  shall  cease  ! 

In  My  name,  timid  ones  crazed  with  terror  ! In  My  name, 
Law  with  a scourging  rod ! 


422 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 

In  My  name,  Anarchy,  Cruelty,  Error ! I,  who  am  Lib- 
erty,— daughter  of  God  ! — 

Peace  ! Be  still ! See  my  torch  uplifted, — 
Heedless  of  Passion  or  Mammon’s  cause  ! 

Round  my  feet  are  the  ages  drifted, 

Under  mine  eyes  are  the  rulers  sifted, — 

Ever,  forever,  my  changeless  laws  ! 

I am  Liberty  ! Fame  of  nation  or  praise  of  statute  is 
naught  to  me ; 

Freedom  is  growth  and  not  creation  : one  man  suffers,  one 
man  is  free. 

One  brain  forges  a constitution  ; but  how  shall  the  million 
souls  be  won  ? 

Freedom  is  more  than  a resolution — he  is  not  free  who  is 
free  alone. 

Justice  is  mine,  and  it  grows  by  loving,  changing  the  world 
like  the  circling  sun  ; 

Evil  recedes  from  the  spirit’s  proving  as  mist  from  the  hol- 
lows when  night  is  done. 

I am  the  test,  O silent  toilers,  holding  the  scales  of  error 
and  truth  ; 

Proving  the  heritage  held  by  spoilers  from  hard  hands 
empty,  and  wasted  youth. 

Hither,  ye  blind,  from  your  futile  banding  ; know  the 
rights,  and  the  rights  are  won  ; 

Wrong  shall  die  with  the  understanding — one  truth  clear 
and  the  work  is  done. 

Nature  is  higher  than  Progress  or  Knowledge,  whose  need 
is  ninety  enslaved  for  ten  ; 

My  word  shall  stand  against  mart  and  college : The 

PLANET  BELONGS  TO  ITS  LIVING  MEN  ! 

And  hither,  ye  weary  ones  and  breathless,  searching  the 
seas  for  a kindly  shore, 

I am  Liberty  ! patient,  deathless — set  by  Love  at  the 
Nation’s  door. 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


423 


THE  PRESS  EVANGEL. 


[The  New  York  World  on  May  10,  1887,  celebrated  the  attainment  of 
a circulation  of  a quarter  of  a million  copies  per  day.  The  World  asked 
Mr.  O’Reilly  to  write  a poem  for  the  occasion,  which  was  printed  at  the 
head  of  the  anniversary  number.] 


GOB’S  order,  “Light  ! ” when  all  was  void  and  dark 
Brought  mornless  noon,  a flame  without  a spark. 

A gift  unearned,  that  none  may  hold  or  hide, 

An  outer  glory,  not  an  inner  guide ; 

But  flamed  no  star  in  heaven  to  light  the  soul 

And  lead  the  wayward  thought  toward  Freedom’s  goal. 


O wasted  ages ! Whither  have  ye  led 
The  breeding  masses  for  their  daily  bread  ? 
Engendered  serfs,  across  a world  of  gloom, 

The  wavelike  generations  reach  the  tomb. 

Masters  and  lords,  they  feared  a lord's  decree, 

Nor  freedom  knew  nor  truth  to  make  them  free. 

But  hark ! A sound  has  reached  the  servile  herd  ! 
Strong  brows  are  raised  to  catch  the  passing  word  ; 
From  mouth  to  mouth  a common  whisper  flies  ; 

A wild  fire  message  burns  on  lips  and  eyes  ; 

Far-off  and  near  the  kindred  tidings  throng — 

How  hopes  come  true,  how  heroes  challenge  wrong  ; 
How  men  have  rights  above  all  law’s  decrees  ; 

How  weak  ones  rise  and  sweep  the  thrones  like  seas  ! 
Behold  ! The  people  listen— question  ! Then 
The  inner  light  has  come — the  boors  are  men  ! 

What  read  ye  here — a dreamer’s  idle  rule  \ 

A swelling  pedant’s  lesson  for  a school  \ 


424 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


Nay,  here  no  dreaming,  no  delusive  charts  ; 

But  common  interests  for  common  hearts  ; 

A truth,  a Principle — beneath  the  sun 
One  vibrant  throb — men’s  rights  and  wrongs  are  one. 
One  heart’s  small  keyboard  touches  all  the  notes  ; 
One  weak  one’s  cry  distends  the  million  throats  ; 

Nor  race  nor  nation  bounds  the  human  kind — 

White,  yellow,  black — one  conscience  and  one  mind  ! 

How  spread  the  doctrine  ? See  the  teachers  fly — 

The  printed  messages  across  the  sky  ; 

From  land  to  land,  as  never  birds  could  wing  ; 

With  songs  of  promise  birds  could  never  sing  ; 

With  mighty  meanings  clearing  here  and  there  ; 
With  nations’  greetings  kings  could  never  share  ; 
With  new  communions  whispering  near  and  far  ; 
With  gathering  armies  bent  on  peace,  not  war  ; 

With  kindly  judges  reading  righteous  laws  ; 

With  strength  and  cheer  for  every  struggling  cause. 

Boll  on,  O cylinders  of  light,  and  teach 
The  helpless  myriads  tongue  can  never  reach. 

Make  men,  not  masses  : pulp  and  mud  unite — 

The  single  grain  of  sand  reflects  the  light. 

True  freedom  makes  the  individual  free  ; 

And  common  law  for  all  makes  Liberty  ! 


THE  USELESS  ONES. 


POETS  should  not  reason : 
Let  them  sing ! 

Argument  is  treason — 

Bells  should  ring. 

Statements  none,  nor  questions  ; 

Gnomic  words. 

Spirit-cries,  suggestions, 

Like  the  birds. 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


425 


He  may  use  deduction 
Who  must  preach  ; 

He  may  praise  instruction 
Who  must  teach  • 

But  the  poet  duly 
Fills  his  part 

When  the  song  bursts  truly 
From  his  heart. 

For  no  purpose  springing  ; 

For  no  pelf  : 

He  must  do  the  singing 
For  itself. 

Not  in  lines  austerely 
Let  him  build ; 

Not  the  surface  merely 
Let  him  gild. 

Fearless,  uninvited, 

Like  a spring. 

Opal-words,  inlighted, 

Let  him  sing. 

As  the  leaf  grows  sunward 
Song  must  grow ; 

As  the  stream  flows  onward 
Song  must  flow. 

Useless  \ Ay, — for  measure  ; 
Roses  die, 

But  their  breath  gives  pleasure — 
God  knows  why ! 


The  Poems  on  pages  429  to  438  were  found  among  John 
Boyle  O' Reilly's  papers  after  his  death.  They  ham 
never  before  been  published , and  are  given  unrevised , 
and,  in  a few  cases,  incomplete,  as  he  left  them.  This  at 
the  instance  of friends,  who  felt  that  those  who  knew  and 
loved  him  would  not  willingly  forego  these  last  words. 


427 


LIBRARY  OP  JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY,  AT  HIS  HOME,  CHARLESTOWN,  MASS. 


LOVE  WAS  TRUE  TO  ME. 


LOVE  was  true  to  me, 

True  and  tender ; 

I who  ought  to  be 

Love’s  defender, 

Let  the  cold  winds  blow 

Till  they  chilled  him 
Let  the  winds  and  snow 
Shroud  him — and  I know 

That  I killed  him. 

Years  he  cried  to  me 

To  be  kinder ; 

I was  blind  to  see 

And  grew  blinder. 
Years  with  soft  hands  raised 
Fondly  reaching, 
Wept  and  prayed  and  praised, 
Still  beseeching. 

When  he  died  I woke, 

God ! how  lonely, 
When  the  gray  dawn  broke 
On  one  only. 

Now  beside  Love’s  grave 

I am  kneeling ; 

All  he  sought  and  gave 
I am  feeling. 


429 


430 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


TO  MY  LITTLE  BLANK). 


I TOLD  her  a story,  a fairy  story, 

My  little  daughter  with  eyes  of  blue. 

And  with  clear,  wide  gaze  as  the  splendors  brightened, 
She  always  asked  me — “ Oh,  is  it  true  ? ” 

Always  that  word  when  the  wonder  reached  her, 

The  pictured  beauty  so  grand  and  new — 

When  the  good  were  paid  and  the  evil  punished, 

Still,  with  soft  insistance — “ Oh,  is  it  true  ? ” 

Ah,  late,  drear  knowledge  from  sin  and  sorrow, 

How  will  you  answer  and  answer  true, 

Her  wistful  doubt  of  the  happy  ending  ? — 

Wise  child  ! I wondered  how  much  she  knew. 


WRITTEN  UNDER  A PORTRAIT  OF  KEATS. 


A GOD-LIKE  face,  with  human  love  and  will 
And  tender  fancy  traced  in  every  line  : 

A god-like  face,  but  oh,  how  human  still  ! 

Dear  Keats,  who  love  the  gods  their  love  is  thine. 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


431 


AN  OLD  PICTURE. 


THERE  are  times  when  a dream  delicious 
Steals  into  a musing  hour, 

Like  a face  with  love  capricious 
That  peeps  from  a woodland  bower  ; 

And  one  dear  scene  comes  changeless  ; 

A wooded  hill  and  a river  ; 

A deep,  cool  bend,  where  the  lilies  end, 

And  the  elm-tree  shadows  quiver. 

And  I lie  on  the  brink  there,  dreaming 
That  the  life  I live  is  a dream  ; 

That  the  real  is  but  the  seeming, 

And  the  true  is  the  sun-flecked  stream. 

Beneath  me,  the  perch  and  the  bream  sail  past 
In  the  dim  cool  depths  of  the  river  ; 

The  struggling  fly  breaks  the  mirrored  sky 
And  the  elm -tree  shadows  quiver. 

There  are  voices  of  children  away  on  the  hill ; 

There  are  bees  thro’  the  flag-flowers  humming  ; 
The  lighter- man  calls  to  the  lock,  and  the  mill 
On  the  farther  side  is  drumming. 

And  I sink  to  sleep  in  my  dream  of  a dream, 

In  the  grass  by  the  brink  of  a river, 

Where  the  voices  blend  and  the  lilies  end 
And  the  elm-tree  shadows  quiver. 

Like  a gift  from  the  past  is  the  kindly  dream, 

For  the  sorrow  and  passion  and  pain 
Are  adrift  like  the  leaves  on  the  breast  of  the  stream, 
And  the  child-life  comes  again. 

O,  the  sweet  sweet  pain  of  a joy  that  died — 

Of  a pain  that  is  joy  forever  ! 

O,  the  life  that  died  in  the  stormy  tide 
That  was  once  my  sun-flecked  river. 


432 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


AT  SCHOOL. 


THE  bees  are  in  the  meadow, 

And  the  swallows  in  the  sky  ; 
The  cattle  in  the  shadow 
Watch  the  river  running  by. 

The  wheat  is  hardly  stirring  ; 

The  heavy  ox-team  lags  ; 

The  dragon-fly  is  whirring 
Through  the  yellow-blossomed  flags. 

And  down  beside  the  river, 

Where  the  trees  lean  o’er  the  pool, 
Where  the  shadows  reach  and  quiver, 

. A boy  has  come  to  school. 

His  teachers  are  the  swallows 
And  the  river  and  the  trees  ; 

His  lessons  are  the  shallow’s 
And  the  flowers  and  the  bees. 

He  sees  the  fly- wave  on  the  stream, 

The  otter  steal  along, 

The  red-gilled,  slow,  deep-sided  bream, 
He  knows  the  mating-song. 

The  chirping  green-fly  on  the  grass 
Accepts  his  comrade  meet ; 

The  small  gray  rabbits  fearless  pass  ; 
The  birds  light  at  his  feet. 

He  knows  not  he  is  learning  ; 

He  thinks  nor  writes  a word  ; 

But  in  the  soul  discerning 
A living  spring  is  stirred. 

In  after  years — O,  weary  years  ! 

The  river’s  lesson,  he 
Will  try  to  speak  to  heedless  ears 
In  faltering  minstrelsy  ! 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


433 


UNDER  THE  SURFACE. 


AY,  smile  as  you  will,  with  your  saintly  face  ! 
But  I know  the  line 

Of  your  guard  is  as  weak  as  a maze  of  lace  : 

You  may  give  no  sign — 

And  the  devil  is  never  far  to  seek, 

And  a rotten  peach  has  a lovely  cheek. 

As  they  come  in  the  stream,  I say  to  you  : 

The  lives  we  jostle  are  none  of  them  true. 

Who  seeks  with  a lamp  and  glass  may  find 
A nature  of  honor  from  core  to  rind  ; 

But  woe  to  the  heart  that  is  formed  so  true  : 

It  may  not  reck,  and  it  still  must  rue 
The  perjured  lip  and  the  bleeding  vow. 

God  keep  it  blind  to  the  things  we  know — 

To  the  ghastly  scars  for  the  leech’s  eyes 
And  the  occult  lore  of  the  worldly  wise. 


CONSCIENCE. 


I CARE  not  for  the  outer  voice 
That  deals  out  praise  or  blame  ; 

I could  not  with  the  world  rejoice 
Nor  bear  its  doom  of  shame — 

But  when  the  Voice  within  me  speaks 
The  truth  to  me  is  known ; 

He  sees  himself  who  inward  seeks — 
The  riches  are  his  own. 


434 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY 


TO  MY  DEAR  OLD  FRIEND,  MR.  A.  SHUMAN. 


[ON  the  occasion  of  his  SILVER  WEDDING.  1 


NOT  many  friends 
Wish  I you  ; 

Love  makes  amends 
For  the  few. 

Slight  bonds  are  best 
For  the  new ; 

Here  is  the  test 
Of  the  true  : 

Pay  to  your  friend 
Your  own  due  ; 

Lore  to  the  end, 

Through  and  through  ; 
Let  him  commend, 

And  not  you. 

Friends  of  this  kind, 

Tried  and  true, 

* May  you,  friend,  find,— 
Just  a few. 


TO  A.  S.,  ON  HIS  DAUGHTER’S  WEDDING. 


THERE  is  no  joy  all  set  apart  from  pain. 
The  opening  bud  has  loss  as  well  as  gain. 
The  brighest  dewdrop  gems  a bending  flower, 
The  rarest  day  has  wept  one  little  shower  ; 
But  wholly  blest  the  parting  pain  and  ruth 
That  hold  and  fold  the  joining  love  of  youth. 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


435 


TWO  LIVES. 


TWO  youths  from  a village  set  out  together 

To  seek  their  fortune  the  wide  world  through ; 
One  cried,  “ Hurra  for  the  autumn  weather  ! ” 

The  Qther  sighed,  “ Winter  is  almost  due  ! ” 

One  failed,  they  said,  for  he  never  was  thrifty, 
Returned  to  the  village,  and  laughed  and  loved. 

The  other  succeeded,  and  when  he  was  fifty 
Had  millions  and  fame,  and  the  world  approved. 

But  the  failure  was  happy,  his  smile  a blessing, 

The  dogs  and  the  children  romped  at  his  feet, 

While  from  him  who  succeeded,  tho’  much  possessing, 
The  little  ones  shrank  wdien  they  chanced  to  meet. 
One  purchased  respect  by  his  lordly  giving : 

The  other  won  love  by  his  loving  ways ; 

And  if  either  had  doubts  of  his  way  of  living, 

It  wasn’t  the  one  with  the  humble  days. 

They  never  knew  it,  but  both  were  teachers 
Of  deep  life-secrets,  these  village  youths — 

The  one  of  a school  where  Facts  are  preachers — 

The  other  of  a world  that  worships  Truths. 


MY  TROUBLES! 


I WROTE  down  my  troubles  every  day ; 

And  after  a few  short  years, 

When  I turned  to  the  heart-aches  passed  awTay, 
I read  them  with  smiles,  not  tears. 


436 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


VIGNETTES. 


AND  Smith  has  made  money?” 
“O,  no  ; that’s  a myth : 
Smith  never  made  money 
But  money  made  Smith  ! ” 


A sculptor  is  Deming — a great  man,  too  ; 

But  the  chisel  of  fancy  the  hand  outstrips ; 
While  he  talks  of  the  wonder  he’s  going  to  do 
All  the  work  of  his  fingers  leaks  out  at  his  lips  ! 


“ A scholar,  sir  ! To  Brown  six  tongues 
are  known ! ” 

(The  Blockhead  ! never  spoke  one  thought 
his  own !) 


Johnson  jingled  his  silver — though  he  never 
had  much  to  purloin  ; 

But  Jackson  jingled  his  intellect — O,  give  us 
Johnson’s  coin ! 


At  school  a blockhead — sullen,  wordless,  dull ; 

His  size  well  known  to  even  his  smallest  mate  ; 
Grown  up,  men  say  : “ How  silent ! He  is  full 
Of  will  and  wisdom ! ” Truly  mud  is  great ! 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


437 


An  honest  man  ! Jones  never  broke  the  law. 

The  wretch  behind  the  bars  he  scorned  with  pride. 
But  these  same  bars  on  every  side  he  saw : 

Jones  lived  in  prison — on  the  other  side. 


A hideous  fungus  in  the  wine-vault  grows, 
Liver-like,  loathsome,  shaking  on  its  stalk  : 
Above  the  wine-vault,  too  (to  him  who  knows), 
The  cursed  mushroom  lives  and  walks  and  talks. 


A MESSAGE  OF  PEACE. 


THERE  once  was  a pirate,  greedy  and  bold, 

Who  ravaged  for  gain,  and  saved  the  spoils  ; 

Till  his  coffers  were  bursting  with  bloodstained  gold, 
And  millions  of  captives  bore  his  toils. 

Then  fear  took  hold  of  him,  and  he  cried  : 

“ I have  gathered  enough  ; now,  war  should  cease!  ” 
And  he  sent  out  messengers  far  and  wide 
(To  the  strong  ones  only)  to  ask  for  peace. 

“We  are  Christian  brethren  ! ” thus  he  spake  ; 

“ Let  us  seal  a contract — never  to  fight ! 

Except  against  rebels  who  dare  to  break 
The  bonds  we  have  made  by  the  victor’s  right.” 

And  the  strong  ones  listen  ; and  some  applaud 
The  kindly  offer  and  righteous  word  ; 

With  never  a dream  of  deceit  or  fraud, 

They  would  spike  the  cannon  and  break  the  sword. 

But  others,  their  elders,  listen,  and  smile 
At  the  sudden  convert’s  unctuous  style. 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


They  watcli  for  the  peacemaker’s  change  of  way  ; 
But  his  war-forges  roar  by  night  and  by  day. 

Even  now,  while  his  godly  messengers  speak, 

His  guns  are  aflame  on  his  enemies  weak. 

He  has  stolen  the  blade  from  the  hand  of  his  foe, 
And  he  strikes  the  unarmed  a merciless  blow. 

To  the  ends  of  the  earth  his  oppression  runs  ; 

The  rebels  are  blown  from  the  mouths  of  his  guns. 
His  war- tax  devours  his  subject’s  food  ; 

He  taxes  their  evil  and  taxes  their  good  ; 

He  taxes  their  salt  till  he  rots  their  blood. 

He  leaps  on  the  friendless  as  on  a prey, 

And  slinks,  tail- down,  from  the  strong  one’s  way. 
The  pharisee’s  cant  goes  up  for  peace  ; 

But  the  cries  of  his  victims  never  cease  ; 

The  stifled  voices  of  brave  men  rise 

From  a thousand  cells  ; while  his  rascal  spies 

Are  spending  their  blood- money  fast  and  free. 

And  this  is  the  Christian  to  oversee 
A world  of  evil ! a saint  to  preach  ! 

A holy  well-doer  come  to  teach  ! 

A prophet  to  tell  us  war  should  cease  ! 

A pious  example  of  Christian  peace  ! 


A MAN. 


A MAN  is  not  the  slave  of  circumstance, 

Or  need  not  be,  but  builder  and  dictator ; 
He  makes  his  own  events,  not  time  nor  chance  ; 
Their  logic  his  : not  creature,  but  creator. 


“The  Singer  who  lived  is  always  alive 
We  hearken  and  always  hear  ! ” 


439 


FOREVER. 


THOSE  we  love  truly  never  die, 

Though  year  by  year  the  sad  memorial  wreath, 
A ring  and  flowers,  types  of  life  and  death, 

Are  laid  upon  their  graves. 

For  death  the  pure  life  saves, 

And  life  all  pure  is  love  ; and  love  can  reach 
From  heaven  to  earth,  and  nobler  lessons  teach 
Than  those  by  mortals  read. 

Well  blest  is  he  who  has  a dear  one  dead  : 

A friend  he  has  whose  face  will  never  change — 

A dear  communion  that  will  not  grow  strange  ; 

The  anchor  of  a love  is  death. 

The  blessed  sweetness  of  a loving  breath 
Will  reach  our  cheek  all  fresh  through  weary  years. 
For  her  who  died  long  since,  ah  ! waste  not  tears, 
She’s  thine  unto  the  end. 

Thank  God  for  one  dead  friend, 

With  face  still  radiant  with  the  light  of  truth, 
Whose  love  comes  laden  with  the  scent  of  youth, 
Through  twenty  years  of  death. 


MY  NATIVE  LAND. 


IT  chanced  to  me  upon  a time  to  sail 

Across  the  Southern  Ocean  to  and  fro  ; 
And,  landing  at  fair  isles,  by  stream  and  vale 

Of  sensuous  blessing  did  we  ofttimes  go. 

441 


442 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


And  months  of  dreamy  joys,  like  joys  in  sleep, 

Or  like  a clear,  calm  stream  o’er  mossy  stone, 

Unnoted  passed  onr  hearts  with  voiceless  sweep, 

And  left  ns  yearning  still  for  lands  unknown. 

And  when  we  found  one, — for  ’tis  soon  to  find 
In  thousand-isled  Cathay  another  isle, — 

For  one  short  noon  its  treasures  filled  the  mind, 

And  then  again  we  yearned,  and  ceased  to  smile. 

And  so  it  was,  from  isle  to  isle  we  passed, 

Like  wanton  bees  or  boys  on  flowers  or  lips  ; 

And  when  that  all  was  tasted,  then  at  last 
We  thirsted  still  for  draughts  instead  of  sips. 

I learned  from  this  there  is  no  Southern  land 
Can  fill  with  love  the  hearts  of  Northern  men. 

Sick  minds  need  change  ; but,  when  in  health  they  stand 
’Neath  foreign  skies,  their  love  flies  home  again. 

And  thus  with  me  it  was  : the  yearning  turned 
From  laden  airs  of  cinnamon  away, 

And  stretched  far  westward,  while  the  full  heart  burned 
With  love  for  Ireland,  looking  on  Cathay  ! 

My  first  dear  love,  all  dearer  for  thy  grief ! 

My  land,  that  has  no  peer  in  all  the  sea 
For  verdure,  vale,  or  river,  flower  or  leaf, — 

If  first  to  no  man  else,  tliou’rt  first  to  me. 

New  loves  may  come  with  duties,  but  the  first 
Is  deepest  yet, — the  mother’s  breath  and  smiles  : 

Like  that  kind  face  and  breast  where  I was  nursed 
Is  my  poor  land,  the  Niobe  of  isles. 


443 


1IIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


A YEAR. 


IN  the  Spring  we  see  : 

Then  the  bads  are  dear  to  us— immature  bosoms  like 
lilies  swell. 

In  the  Summer  we  live  : 

When  bright  eyes  are  near  to  us,  oh,  the  sweet  stories  the 
false  lips  tell ! 

In  the  Autumn  we  love  : 

When  the  honey  is  dripping,  deep  eyes  moisten  and  soft 
breasts  heave  ; 

In  the  Winter  we  think  : 

With  the  sands  fast  slipping,  we  smile  and  sigh  for  the  days 
we  leave. 


THE  FAME  OF  THE  CITY. 


A GREAT  rich  city  of  power  and  pride, 

With  streets  full  of  traders,  and  ships  on  the  tide  ; 
With  rich  men  and  workmen  and  judges  and  preachers, 
The  shops  full  of  skill  and  the  schools  full  of  teachers. 

The  people  were  proud  of  their  opulent  town  : 

The  rich  men  spent  millions  to  bring  it  renown  ; 

The  strong  men  built  and  the  tradesmen  planned ; 

The  shipmen  sailed  to  every  land  ; 

The  lawyers  argued,  the  schoolmen  taught, 

And  a poor  shy  Poet  his  verses  brought, 

And  cast  them  into  the  splendid  store. 

The  tradesmen  stared  at  his  useless  craft ; 

The  rich  men  sneered  and  the  strong  men  laughed  ; 

The  preachers  said  it  was  worthless  quite  ; 

The  schoolmen  claimed  it  was  theirs  to  write  ; 


444 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


But  the  songs  were  spared,  though  they  added  naught 
To  the  profit  and  praise  the  people  sought, 

That  was  wafted  at  last  from  distant  climes  ; 

And  the  townsmen  said  : “To  remotest  times 
We  shall  send  our  name  and  our  greatness  down  ! ” 

The  boast  came  true  ; but  the  famous  town 
Had  a lesson  to  learn  when  all  was  told  : 

The  nations  that  honored  cared  naught  for  its  gold, 

Its  skill  they  exceeded  an  hundred-fold  ; 

It  had  only  been  one  of  a thousand  more, 

Had  the  songs  of  the  Poet  been  lost  to  its  store. 

Then  the  rich  men  and  tradesmen  and  schoolmen  said 
They  had  never  derided,  but  praised  instead  ; 

And  they  boast  of  the  Poet  their  town  has  bred. 


YESTERDAY  AND  TO-MORROW. 


JOYS  have  three  stages,  Hoping,  Having,  and  Had : 

The  hands  of  Hope  are  empty,  and  the  heart  of  Hav- 
ing is  sad ; 

For  the  joy  we  take,  in  the  taking  dies  ; and  the  joy  we 
Had  is  its  ghost. 

Now,  which  is  the  better — the  joy  unknown  or  the  joy  we 
have  clasped  and  lost  ? 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES* 


445 


IN  BOHEMIA. 


I’D  rather  live  in  Bohemia  than  in  any  other  land ; 

For  only  there  are  the  values  true, 

And  the  laurels  gathered  in  all  men’s  view. 

The  prizes  of  traffic  and  state  are  won 
By  shrewdness  or  force  or  by  deeds  undone  ; 

But  fame  is  sweeter  without  the  feud, 

And  the  wise  of  Bohemia  are  never  shrewd. 

Here,  pilgrims  stream  with  a faith  sublime 
From  every  class  and  clime  and  time, 

Aspiring  only  to  be  enrolled 

. With  the  names  that  are  writ  in  the  book  of  gold  ; 
And  each  one  bears  in  mind  or  hand 
A palm  of  the  dear  Bohemian  land. 

The  scholar  first,  with  his  book — a youth 
Aflame  with  the  glory  of  harvested  truth  ; 

A girl  with  a picture,  a man  with  a play, 

A boy  with  a wolf  he  has  modeled  in  clay  ; 

A smith  with  a marvelous  hilt  and  sword, 

A player,  a king,  a plowman,  a lord — 

And  the  player  is  king  when  the  door  is  past. 

The  plowman  is  crowned,  and  the  lord  is  last ! 

I’d  rather  fail  in  Bohemia  than  win  in  another  land ; 
There  are  no  titles  inherited  there, 

No  hoard  or  hope  for  the  brainless  heir  ; 

No  gilded  dullard  native  born 

To  stare  at  his  fellow  with  leaden  scorn  : 

Bohemia  has  none  but  adopted  sons  ; 

Its  limits,  where  Fancy’s  bright  stream  runs  ; 

Its  honors,  not  garnered  for  thrift  or  trade, 

But  for  beauty  and  truth  men’s  souls  have  made. 

To  the  empty  heart  in  a jeweled  breast 
There  is  value,  maybe,  in  a purchased  crest ; 

But  the  thirsty  of  soul  soon  learn  to  know 
The  moistureless  froth  of  the  social  show  ; 


440 


JOHN  BOYLE  o’liEILLY. 


The  vulgar  sham  of  the  pompous  feast 
Where  the  heaviest  purse  is  the  highest  priest ; 

The  organized  charity,  scrimped  and  iced, 

In  the  name  of  a cautious,  statistical  Christ ; 

The  smile  restrained,  the  respectable  cant, 

When  a friend  in  need  is  a friend  in  want ; 

Where  the  only  aim  is  to  keep  afloat, 

And  a brother  may  drown  with  a cry  in  his  throat. 

Oh,  I long  for  the  glow  of  a kindly  heart  and  the  grasp  of 
a friendly  hand, 

And  I’d  rather  live  in  Bohemia  than  in  any  other  land. 


SONGS  THAT  ABE  NOT  SUNG. 


DO  not  praise  : a smile  is  payment  more  than  meet  for 
what  is  done ; 

Who  shall  paint  the  mote’s  glad  raiment  floating  in  the 
molten  sun  ? 

Nay,  nor  smile,  for  blind  is  eyesight,  ears  may  hear  not, 
lips  are  dumb  ; 

From  the  silence,  from  the  twilight,  wordless  but  complete 
they  come. 

Songs  were  born  before  the  singer  : like  white  souls  await- 
ing birth, 

They  abide  the  chosen  bringer  of  their  melody  to  earth. 

Deep  the  pain  of  our  demerit : strings  so  rude  or  rudely 
strung, 

Dull  to  every  pleading  spirit  seeking  speech  but  sent 
unsung ; 

Round  our  hearts  with  gentle  breathing  still  the  plaintive 
silence  plays, 

But  wTe  brush  away  its  wreathing,  filled  with  cares  of  com- 
mon days. 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES.  447 

Ever  thinking  of  the  morrow,  burdened  down  with  cares 
and  needs, 

Once  or  twice,  mayhap,  in  sorrow,  we  may  hear  the  song 
that  pleads ; 

Once  or  twice,  a dreaming  poet  sees  the  beauty  as  it  flies, 

But  his  vision  who  shall  know  it,  who  shall  read  it  from 
his  eyes  ? 

Voiceless  he, — his  necromancy  fails  to  cage  the  wondrous 
bird  ; 

Lure  and  snare  are  vain  when  fancy  flies  like  echo  from  a 
word. 

Only  sometime  he  may  sing  it,  using  speech  as  ’twere  a 
bell, 

Not  to  read  the  song  but  ring  it,  like  the  sea-tone  from  a 
shell. 

Sometimes,  too,  it  comes  and  lingers  round  the  strings  all 
still  and  mute, 

Till  some  lover’s  trembling  fingers  draw  it  living  from  the 
lute. 

Still,  our  best  is  but  a vision  which  a lightning-flash 
illumes, 

Just  a gleam  of  life  elysian  flung  across  the  voiceless 
glooms. 

Why  should  gleams  perplex  and  move  us  ? Must  the  soul 
still  upward  grow 

To  the  beauty  far  above  us  and  the  songs  no  sense  may 
know  ? 


“ Great  men  grow  greater  by  the  lapse  of  time  : 

We  know  those  least  whom  we  hare  seen  the  latest ; 

And  they , ’ mongst  those  whose  names  hare  grown  sublime , 
Who  worked  for  Human  Liberty , are  greatest." 


448 


WENDELL  PHILLIPS.* 


"YTTHAT  shall  we  mourn  % For  the  prostrate  tree  that 
VV  sheltered  the  young  green  wood  \ 

For  the  fallen  cliff  that  fronted  the  sea,  and  guarded  the 


fields  from  the  flood  ? 

For  the  eagle  that  died  in  the  tempest,  afar  from  its  eyrie’s 
brood  ? 


Nay,  not  for  these  shall  we  weep  ; for  the  silver  cord  must 
be  worn, 

And  the  golden  fillet  shrink  back  at  last,  and  the  dust  to 
its  earth  return  ; 

And  tears  are  never  for  those  who  die  with  their  face  to 
the  duty  done  ; 

But  we  mourn  for  the  fledglings  left  on  the  waste,  and  the 
fields  where  the  wild  waves  run. 


From  the  midst  of  the  flock  he  defended,  the  brave  one  has 
gone  to  his  rest ; 

And  the  tears  of  the  poor  he  befriended  their  wealth  of 
affliction  attest. 

From  the  midst  of  the  people  is  stricken  a symbol  they 
daily  saw, 

Set  over  against  the  law  books,  of  a Higher  than  Human 
Law  ; 

For  his  life  was  a ceaseless  protest,  and  his  voice  was  a 
prophet’s  cry 

To  be  true  to  the  Truth  and  faithful,  though  the  world 
were  arrayed  for  the  Lie. 


* Died  Saturday,  February  2, 1884. 

440 


450  JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 

From  the  hearing  of  those  who  hated,  a threatening  voice 
has  past ; 

But  the  lives  of  those  who  believe  and  die  are  not  blown 
like  a leaf  on  the  blast. 

A sower  of  infinite  seed  was  he,  a woodman  that  hewed 
toward  the  light, 

Who  dared  to  be  traitor  to  Union  when  Union  was  traitor 
to  Right ! 

“ Fanatic  ! ” the  insects  hissed,  till  he  taught  them  to  un- 
derstand 

That  the  highest  crime  may  be  written  in  the  highest  law 
of  the  land. 

“ Disturber”  and  “ Dreamer”  the  Philistines  cried  when 
he  preached  an  ideal  creed, 

Till  they  learned  that  the  men  who  have  changed  the  world 
with  the  world  have  disagreed  ; 

That  the  remnant  is  right,  when  the  masses  are  led  like 
sheep  to  the  pen  ; 

For  the  instinct  of  equity  slumbers  till  roused  by  instinc- 
tive men. 

It  is  not  enough  to  win  rights  from  a king  and  write  them 
down  in  a book. 

New  men,  new  lights  ; and  the  fathers’  code  the  sons  may 
never  brook. 

What  is  liberty  now  were  license  then  : their  freedom  our 
yoke  would  be  ; 

And  each  new  decade  must  have  new  men  to  determine  its 
liberty. 

Mankind  is  a marching  army,  with  a broadening  front  the 
while  : 

Shall  it  crowd  its  bulk  on  the  farm-paths,  or  clear  to  the 
outward  file  ? 

Its  pioneers  are  the  dreamers  who  fear  neither  tongue  nor 
pen 

Of  the  human  spiders  whose  silk  is  wove  from  the  lives  of 
toiling  men. 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES.  451 

Come,  brothers,  here  to  the  burial ! But  weep  not,  rathei 
rejoice, 

For  his  fearless  life  and  his  fearless  death ; for  his  true, 
unequalled  voice, 

Like  a silver  trumpet  sounding  the  note  of  human  right ; 

For  his  brave  heart  always  ready  to  enter  the  weak  one’s 
fight; 

For  his  soul  unmoved  by  the  mob’s  wild  shout  or  the  social 
sneer’s  disgrace ; 

For  his  freeborn  spirit  that  drew  no  line  between  class  or 
creed  or  race. 


Come,  workers ; here  was  a teacher,  and  the  lesson  he 
taught  was  good  : 

There  are  no  classes  or  races,  but  one  human  brotherhood  ; 

There  are  no  creeds  to  be  outlawed,  no  colors  of  skin 
debarred ; 

Mankind  is  one  in  its  rights  and  wrongs — one  right,  one 
hope,  one  guard. 

By  his  life  he  taught,  by  his  death  we  learn  the  great 
reformer’s  creed : 

The  right  to  be  free,  and  the  hope  to  be  just,  and  the  guard 
against  selfish  greed. 

And  richest  of  all  are  the  unseen  wreaths  on  his  coffin-lid 
laid  down 

By  the  toil-stained  hands  of  workmen — their  sob,  their 
kiss,  and  their  crown. 


452 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


A SEED. 


A KINDLY  act  is  a kernel  sown, 
That  will  grow  to  a goodly  tree, 
Shedding  its  fruit  when  time  has  flown 
Down  the  gulf  of  eternity. 


A TRAGEDY. 


A SOFT-BREASTED  bird  from  the  sea 

Fell  in  love  with  the  light-house  flame  ; 
And  it  wheeled  round  the  tower  on  its  airiest  wing, 
And  floated  and  cried  like  a lovelorn  thing  ; 

It  brooded  all  day  and  it  fluttered  all  night, 

But  could  win  no  look  from  the  steadfast  light. 

For  the  flame  had  its  heart  afar,— 

Afar  with  the  ships  at  sea  ; 

It  was  thinking  of  children  and  waiting  wives, 

And  darkness  and  danger  to  sailors’  lives  ; 

But  the  bird  had  its  tender  bosom  pressed 
On  the  glass  where  at  last  it  dashed  its  breast. 

The  light  only  flickered,  the  brighter  to  glow  ; 
But  the  bird  lay  dead  on  the  rocks  below. 


DISTANCE. 


THE  world  is  large,  when  its  weary  leagues  two  loving 
hearts  divide ; 

But  the  world  is  small,  when  your  enemy  is  loose  on  the 
other  side. 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


453 


ERIN. 


COME,  sing  a new  song  to  her  here  while  we  listen  ! ” 
They  cry  to  her  sons  who  sing  ; 

And  one  sings  : “ Mavourneen , it  makes  the  eyes  glisten 
To  think  how  the  sorrows  cling, 

Like  the  clouds  on  your  mountains,  wreathing 
Their  green  to  a weeping  gray  ! ” 

And  the  bard  with  his  passionate  breathing 
Has  no  other  sweet  word  to  say. 

.“Come  sing  a new  song  ! ” and  their  eyes,  while  they’re 
speaking, 

Are  dreaming  of  far-off  things  ; 

And  their  hearts  are  away  for  the  old  words  seeking, 
Unheeding  of  him  who  sings. 

But  he  smiles  and  sings  on,  for  the  sound  so  slender 
Has  reached  the  deep  note  he  knows  ; 

And  the  heart-poem  stirred  by  the  word  so  tender 
Out  from  the  well-spring  flows. 

And  he  says  in  his  song  : “0  dhar  dlieelisJi ! the  tearful ! 

She’s  ready  to  laugh  when  she  cries  ! ” 

And  they  sob  when  they  hear:  “Sure  she’s  sad  when 
she’s  cheerful  ; 

And  she  smiles  with  the  tears  in  her  eyes  ! ” 

And  he  asks  them  : What  need  of  new  poets  to  praise 
her? 

Her  harpers  still  sing  in  the  past ; 

And  her  first  sweet  old  melodies  comfort  and  raise  her 
To  joys  never  reached  by  her  last. 


454 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


What  need  of  new  hero,  with  Brian  ? or  preacher, 

With  Patrick  ? or  soldier,  with  Conn  \ 

With  her  dark  Ollamh  Fohla,  what  need  of  a teacher, 
Sage,  ruler,  and  builder  in  one  ? 

What  need  of  new  lovers,  with  Deirdre  and  Imer  ? 

With  wonders  and  visions  and  elves 

Sure  no  need  at  all  has  romancer  or  rhymer, 

When  the  fairies  belong  to  ourselves. 

What  need  of  new  tongues  ? O,  the  Gaelic  is  clearest, 
Like  Nature’s  own  voice  every  word  ; 

“ Ahagur  ! AcusJtla  ! Savourneen  /”  the  dearest 
The  ear  of  a girl  ever  heard. 

They  may  talk  of  new  causes  ! Dhar  Bhia  ! our  old  one 
Is  fresher  than  ever  to-day  ; 

Like  Erin’s  green  sod  that  is  steaming  to  God 
The  blood  it  has  drunk  in  the  fray. 


They  have  scattered  her  seed,  with  her  blood  and  hate  in  it, 
And  the  harvest  has  come  to  her  here  ; 

Her  crown  still  remains  for  the  strong  heart  to  win  it, 

And  the  hour  of  acceptance  is  near. 

Through  ages  of  warfare  and  famine  and  prison 
Her  voice  and  her  spirit  were  free  : 

But  the  longest  night  ends,  and  her  name  has  uprisen  : 

The  sunburst  is  red  on  the  sea ! 

What  need  of  new  songs  ? When  his  country  is  singing, 
What  word  has  the  Poet  to  say, 

But  to  drink  her  a toast  while  the  joy-bells  are  ringing 
The  dawn  of  her  opening  day  ? 

“ O Bride  of  the  Sea  ! may  the  world  know  your  laughter 
As  well  as  it  knows  your  tears  ! 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


455 


As  your  past  was  for  Freedom,  so  be  your  hereafter  ; 

And  through  all  your  coming  years 
May  no  weak  race  be  wronged,  and  no  strong  robber  feared ; 
To  oppressors  grow  hateful,  to  slaves  more  endeared  ; 

Till  the  world  comes  to  know  that  the  test  of  a cause 
Is  the  hatred  of  tyrants,  and  Erin’ s applause  ! ’ ’ 


POET  AND  LORD. 


GOD  makes  a poet : touches  soul  and  sight, 

And  lips  and  heart,  and  sends  him  forth  to  sing  ; 
His  fellows  hearing,  own  the  true  birthright, 

And  crown  him  daily  with  the  love  they  bring. 

The  king  a lord  makes,  by  a parchment  leaf  ; 

Though  heart  be  withered,  and  though  sight  be  dim 
With  dullard  brain  and  soul  of  disbelief — 

Ay,  even  so  ; he  makes  a lord  of  him. 

What,  then,  of  one  divinely  kissed  and  sent 
To  fill  the  people  with  ideal  words, 

Who  with  his  poet’s  crown  is  discontent, 

And  begs  a parchment  title  with  the  lords  % 


SPRING  FLOWERS. 


OTHE  rare  spring  flowers ! take  them  as  they  come  : 
Do  not  wait  for  summer  buds — they  may  never  bloom. 
Every  sweet  to-day  sends,  we  are  wise  to  save  ; 

Roses  bloom  for  pulling  : the  path  is  to  the  grave. 


456 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


THE  LOVING  CUP  OF  THE  PAPYRUS.* 


~TTTISE  men  use  days  as  husbandmen  use  bees, 

V V And  steal  rich  drops  from  every  pregnant  hour ; 
Others,  like  wasps  on  blossomed  apple-trees, 

Find  gall,  not  honey,  in  the  sweetest  flower. 


Congratulations  for  a scene  like  this ! 

The  olden  times  are  here — these  shall  be  olden 
When,  years  to  come,  remembering  present  bliss, 
We  sigh  for  past  Papyrian  dinners  golden. 


We  thank  the  gods  ! we  call  them  back  to  light — 

Call  back  to  hoary  Egypt  for  Osiris, 

Who  first  made  wine,  to  join  our  board  to-night, 

And  drain  this  loving  cup  with  the  Papyrus. 

He  comes  ! the  Pharaoh’s  god  ! fling  wide  the  door — 
Welcome,  Osiris  ! See — thine  old  prescription 

Is  honored  here  ; and  thou  shalt  drink  once  more 
With  men  whose  treasured  ensign  is  Egyptian. 

A toast ! a toast ! our  guest  shall  give  a toast ! 

By  Nilus’  flood,  we  pray  thee,  god,  inspire  us  ! 

He  smiles — he  wills — let  not  a word  be  lost — 

His  hand  upon  the  cup,  he  speaks  : 

“ Papyrus  ! 

“ I greet  ye  ! and  mine  ancient  nation  shares 
In  greeting  fair  from  Ammon,  Ptah,  and  Isis, 

Whose  leaf  ye  love — dead  Egypt’ s leaf,  that  bears 
Our  tale  of  pride  from  Cheops  to  Cambyses. 


* On  February  3,  1877,  at  the  dinner  of  “ The  Papyrus,”  a club  composed  of 
literary  men  and  artists  of  Boston,  a beautiful  crystal  “ Loving  Cup  ” was  pre- 
sented to  the  club  by  Mr.  Wm.  A.  Hovey. 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


457 


“ We  gods  of  Egypt,  who  are  wise  with  age — 

Five  thousand  years  have  washed  us  clean  of  passion — 

A golden  era  for  this  board  presage, 

While  ye  do  keep  this  cup  in  priestly  fashion. 

“We  love  to  see  the  bonds  of  fellowship 
Made  still  more  sacred  by  a fine  tradition  ; 

We  bless  this  bowl  that  moves  from  lip  to  lip 
In  love’s  festoons,  renewed  by  every  mission. 

“ Intern  the  vessel  from  profaning  eyes  ; 

The  lip  that  kisses  should  have  special  merit ; 

Thus  every  sanguine  draught  shall  symbolize 
And  consecrate  the  true  Papyrian  spirit. 

“ For  brotherhood,  not  wine,  this  cup  should  pass  ; 

Its  depths  should  ne’er  reflect  the  eye  of  malice  ; 

Drink  toasts  to  strangers  with  the  social  glass, 

But  drink  to  brothers  with  this  loving  chalice. 

“ And  now,  Papyrus,  each  one  pledge  to  each  : 

And  let  this  formal  tie  be  warmly  cherished. 

No  words  are  needed  for  a kindly  speech — 

The  loving  thought  will  live  when  words  have  perished.” 


458 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’KEILLY. 


UNDER  THE  RIVER. 


CLEAR  and  bright,  from  the  snowy  height, 
The  joyous  stream  to  the  plain  descended  : 
Rich  sands  of  gold  were  washed  and  rolled 
To  the  turbid  marsh  where  its  pure  life  ended. 

From  stainless  snow  to  the  moor  below 
The  heart  like  the  brook  has  a waning  mission 
The  buried  dream  in  life’s  sluggish  stream 
Is  the  golden  sand  of  our  young  ambition. 


GRANT— 1885. 


BLESSED  are  Pain,  the  smiter, 

And  Sorrow,  the  uniter  ! 

For  one  afflicted  lies — 

A symboled  sacrifice — 

And  all  our  rancor  dies  ! 

No  North,  no  South  ! O stern-faced  Chief, 
One  weeping  ours,  one  cowled  Grief — 

Thy  Country — bowed  in  prayer  and  tear — 
For  North  and  South— above  thy  bier  ! 

For  North  and  South  ! O Soldier  grim, 

The  broken  ones  to  weep  for  him 

Who  broke  them  ! He  whose  terrors  blazed 

In  smoking  harvests,  cities  razed  ; 

Whose  Fate-like  glance  sent  fear  and  chill ; 
Whose  wordless  lips  spake  deathless  will — 
Till  all  was  shattered,  all  was  lost — 

All  hands  dropped  down — all  War’s  red  cost 
Laid  there  in  ashes — Hope  and  Hate 
And  Shame  and  Glory  ! 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


459 


Death  and  Fate 
Fall  back  ! Another  touch  is  thine  ; 

He  drank  not  of  thy  poisoned  wine, 

Nor  blindly  met  thy  blind-thrown  lance, 
Nor  died  for  sightless  time  or  chance — 
But  waited,  suffered,  bowed  and  tried, 
Till  all  the  dross  was  purified  ; 

Till  every  well  of  hate  was  dried  ; 

And  North  and  South  in  sorrow  vied, 
And  then — at  God’ s own  calling — died  ! 


AT  BEST. 


THE  faithful  helm  commands  the  keel, 
From  port  to  port  fair  breezes  blow  ; 
But  the  ship  must  sail  the  convex  sea, 

Nor  may  she  straighter  go. 

So,  man  to  man  ; in  fair  accord, 

On  thought  and  will,  the  winds  may  wait ; 
But  the  world  will  bend  the  passing  word, 
Though  its  shortest  course  be  straight. 

From  soul  to  soul  the  shortest  line 
At  best  will  bended  be  : 

The  ship  that  holds  the  straightest  course 
Still  sails  the  convex  sea. 


460 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


THE  RIDE  OF  COLLINS  GRAVES. 


AN  INCIDENT  OF  THE  FLOOD  IN  MASSACHUSETTS,  ON 
MAY  16,  1874. 


NO  song  of  a soldier  riding  down 

To  the  raging  fight  from  Winchester  town  ; 
No  song  of  a time  that  shook  the  earth 
With  the  nations’  throe  at  a nation’s  birth  ; 

But  the  song  of  a brave  man,  free  from  fear 
As  Sheridan’s  self  or  Paul  Revere  ; 

Who  risked  what  they  risked,  free  from  strife, 

And  its  promise  of  glorious  pay — his  life  ! 

The  peaceful  valley  has  waked  and  stirred, 

And  the  answering  echoes  of  life  are  heard  : 

The  dew  still  clings  to  the  trees  and  grass, 

And  the  early  toilers  smiling  pass, 

As  they  glance  aside  at  the  white-walled  homes, 

Or  up  the  valley,  where  merrily  comes 
The  brook  that  sparkles  in  diamond  rills 
As  the  sun  comes  over  the  Hampshire  hills. 

What  was  it,  that  passed  like  an  ominous  breath — 
Like  a shiver  of  fear,  or  a touch  of  death  ? 

What  was  it  ? The  valley  is  peaceful  still, 

And  the  leaves  are  afire  on  top  of  the  hill. 

It  was  not  a sound — nor  a thing  of  sense — 

But  a pain,  like  the  pang  of  the  short  suspense 
That  thrills  the  being  of  those  who  see 
At  their  feet  the  gulf  of  Eternity  ! 

The  air  of  the  valley  has  felt  the  chill : 

The  workers  pause  at  the  door  of  the  mill ; 

The  housewife,  keen  to  the  shivering  air, 

Arrests  her  foot  on  the  cottage  stair, 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


461 


Instinctive  taught  by  the  mother-love, 

And  thinks  of  the  sleeping  ones  above. 

Why  start  the  listeners  ? Why  does  the  course 
Of  the  mill-stream  widen  \ Is  it  a horse — 

Hark  to  the  sound  of  his  hoofs,  they  say — 

That  gallops  so  wildly  Williamsburg  way  ! 

God  ! what  was  that,  like  a human  shriek 
From  the  winding  valley  ? Will  nobody  speak  ? 

Will  nobody  answer  those  women  who  cry 
As  the  awful  warnings  thunder  by  ? 

Whence  come  they  ? Listen ! And  now  they  hear 
The  sound  of  the  galloping  horsehoofs  near  ; 

They  watch  the  trend  of  the  vale,  and  see 
The  rider  who  thunders  so  menacingly, 

With  waving  arms  and  warning  scream 
To  the  home-filled  banks  of  the  valley  stream. 

He  draws  no  rein,  but  he  shakes  the  street 
With  a shout  and  the  ring  of  the  galloping  feet ; 

And  this  the  cry  he  flings  to  the  wind : 

“ To  the  hills  for  your  lives  ! The  flood  is  behind  ! ” 

He  cries  and  is  gone  ; but  they  know  the  worst — 

The  breast  of  the  Williamsburg  dam  has  burst ! 

The  basin  that  nourished  their  happy  homes 
Is  changed  to  a demon — It  comes  ! it  comes  ! 

A monster  in  aspect,  with  shaggy  front 

Of  shattered  dwellings,  to  take  the  brunt 

Of  the  homes  they  shatter — white-maned  and  hoarse, 

The  merciless  Terror  fills  the  course 

Of  the  narrow  valley,  and  rushing  raves, 

With  death  on  the  first  of  its  hissing  waves, 

Till  cottage  and  street  and  crowded  mill 
Are  crumbled  and  crushed. 


462 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


But  onward  still, 

In  front  of  the  roaring  flood  is  heard 
The  galloping  horse  and  the  warning  word. 
Thank  God  ! the  brave  man’s  life  is  spared  ! 
From  Williamsburg  town  he  nobly  dared 
To  race  with  the  flood  and  take  the  road 
In  front  of  the  terrible  swath  it  mowed. 

For  miles  it  thundered  and  crashed  behind, 
But  he  looked  ahead  with  a steadfast  mind  ; 
“ They  must  be  warned  ! ” was  all  he  said, 
As  away  on  his  terrible  ride  he  sped. 

When  heroes  are  called  for,  bring  the  crown 
To  this  Yankee  rider  : send  him  down 
On  the  stream  of  time  with  the  Curtius  old  ; 
His  deed  as  the  Homan’s  was  brave  and  bold, 
And  the  tale  can  as  noble  a thrill  awake, 

For  he  offered  his  life  for  the  people’ s sake. 


ENSIGN  EPPS,  THE  COLOR-BEAEEB. 


ENSIGN  EFPS,  at  the  battle  of  Flanders, 
Sowed  a seed  of  glory  and  duty 
That  flowers  and  flames  in  height  and  beauty 
Like  a crimson  lily  with  heart  of  gold, 

To-day,  when  the  wars  of  Ghent  are  old 
And  buried  as  deep  as  their  dead  commanders. 

Ensign  Epps  was  the  color-bearer, — 

No  matter  on  which  side,  Philip  or  Earl ; 

Their  cause  was  the  shell — his  deed  was  the  pearl. 
Scarce  more  than  a lad,  he  had  been  a sharer 
That  day  in  the  wildest  work  of  the  field. 

He  was  wounded  and  spent,  and  the  fight  was  lost 
His  comrades  were  slain,  or  a scattered  host. 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


463 


But  stainless  and  scatheless,  out  of  the  strife, 

He  had  carried  his  colors  safer  than  life. 

By  the  river’s  brink,  without  weapon  or  shield, 

He  faced  the  victors.  The  thick-heart  mist 
He  dashed  from  his  eyes,  and  the  silk  he  kissed 
Ere  he  held  it  aloft  in  the  setting  sun, 

As  proudly  as  if  the  fight  were  won, 

And  he  smiled  when  they  ordered  him  to  yield. 

Ensign  Epps,  with  his  broken  blade, 

Cut  the  silk  from  the  gilded  staff, 

Which  he  poised  like  a spear  till  the  charge  was  made, 
And  hurled  at  the  leader  with  a laugh. 

Then  round  his  breast,  like  the  scarf  of  his  love, 

He  tied  the  colors  his  heart  above, 

And  plunged  in  his  armor  into  the  tide, 

And  there,  in  his  dress  of  honor,  died. 

Where  are  the  lessons  your  kinglings  teach  ? 

And  what  is  text  of  your  proud  commanders  ? 

Out  of  the  centuries,  heroes  reach 

With  the  scroll  of  a deed,  with  the  word  of  a story, 

Of  one  man’s  truth  and  of  all  men’s  glory, 

Like  Ensign  Epps  at  the  battle  of  Flanders. 


THE  CRY  OF  THE  DREAMER. 


I AM  tired  of  planning  and  toiling 
In  the  crowded  hives  of  men  ; 
Heart- weary  of  building  and  spoiling, 
And  spoiling  and  building  again. 
And  I long  for  the  dear  old  river, 
Where  I dreamed  my  youth  away  ; 
For  a dreamer  lives  forever, 

And  a toiler  dies  in  a day. 


464  JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 

I am  sick  of  the  showy  seeming 
Of  a life  that  is  half  a lie  ; 

Of  the  faces  lined  with  scheming 
In  the  throng  that  hurries  by. 

From  the  sleepless  thoughts’  endeavor, 

I would  go  where  the  children  play  ; 

For  a dreamer  lives  forever, 

And  a thinker  dies  in  a day. 

I can  feel  no  pride,  but  pity 
For  the  burdens  the  rich  endure  ; 

There  is  nothing  sweet  in  the  city 
But  the  patient  lives  of  the  poor. 

Oh,  the  little  hands  too  skillful, 

And  the  child-mind  choked  with  weeds 

The  daughter’s  heart  grown  willful, 

And  the  father’s  heart  that  bleeds  ! 

No,  no  ! from  the  street’s  rude  bustle, 
From  trophies  of  mart  and  stage, 

I would  fly  to  the  woods’  low  rustle 
And  the  meadows’  kindly  page. 

Let  me  dream  as  of  old  by  the  river, 

And  be  loved  for  the  dream  alway  ; 

For  a dreamer  lives  forever, 

And  a toiler  dies  in  a day. 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


465 


MY  MOTHER’S  MEMORY. 


THERE  is  one  bright  star  in  heaven 
Ever  shining  in  my  night ; 

God  to  me  one  guide  has  given, 

Like  the  sailor’s  beacon-light, 

Set  on  every  shoal  and  danger, 

Sending  out  its  warning  ray 
To  the  ho  me -bound  weary  stranger 
Looking  for  the  land-locked  bay. 

In  my  farthest,  wildest  wanderings 
I have  turned  me  to  that  love, 

As  a diver,  ’neath  the  water, 

Turns  to  watch  the  light  above. 


HERE  is  a shadow  on  the  sunny  wall, 


Dark  and  forbidding,  like  a bode  of  ill  ; 
Go,  drive  it  thence.  Alas,  such  shadows  fall 
From  real  things,  nor  may  be  moved  at  wilh 

There  is  a shadow  on  my  heart  to-day, 

A cloudy  grief  condensing  to  a tear  : 

Alas,  I cannot  drive  its  gloom  away — 

Some  sin  or  sorrow  casts  the  shapeless  fear. 


THE  SHADOW. 


466 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


AT  FREDERICKSBURG.— Dec.  13,  1862. 


OD  send  us  peace,  and  keep  red  strife  away  ; 
vT  But  should  it  come,  God  send  us  men  and  steel ! 
The  land  is  dead  that  dare  not  face  the  day 
When  foreign  danger  threats  the  common  weal. 


Defenders  strong  are  they  that  homes  defend  ; 

From  ready  arms  the  spoiler  keeps  afar. 

W ell  blest  the  country  that  has  sons  to  lend 
From  trades  of  peace  to  learn  the  trade  of  war. 

Thrice  blest  the  nation  that  has  every  son 
A soldier,  ready  for  the  warning  sound  ; 

Who  marches  homeward  when  the  fight  is  done, 

To  swing  the  hammer  and  to  till  the  ground. 

Call  back  that  morning,  with  its  lurid  light, 

When  through  our  land  the  awful  war-bell  tolled  ; 

When  lips  were  mute,  and  women’s  faces  white 
As  the  pale  cloud  that  out  from  Sumter  rolled. 

Call  back  that  morn  : an  instant  all  were  dumb, 

As  if  the  shot  had  struck  the  Nation’s  life ; 

Then  cleared  the  smoke,  and  rolled  the  calling  drum, 
And  men  streamed  in  to  meet  the  coming  strife. 


They  closed  the  ledger  and  they  stilled  the  loom, 
The  plow  left  rusting  in  the  prairie  farm  ; 

They  saw  but  “ Union”  in  the  gathering  gloom  ; 
The  tearless  women  helped  the  men  to  arm  ; 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


467 


Brigades  from  towns — each  village  sent  its  band  : 
German  and  Irish — every  race  and  faith  ; 

There  was  no  question  then  of  native  land, 

But — love  the  Flag  and  follow  it  to  death. 

No  need  to  tell  their  tale : through  every  age 
The  splendid  story  shall  be  sung  and  said  ; 

But  let  me  draw  one  picture  from  the  page — 

For  words  of  song  embalm  the  hero  dead. 


The  smooth  hill  is  bare,  and  the  cannons  are  planted, 

Like  Gorgon  fates  shading  its  terrible  brow  ; 

The  word  has  been  passed  that  the  stormers  are  wanted, 
And  Burnside’s  battalions  are  mustering  now. 

The  armies  stand  by  to  behold  the  dread  meeting ; 

The  work  must  be  done  by  a desperate  few  ; 

The  black-mouthed  guns  on  the  height  give  them  greeting — 
From  gun-mouth  to  plain  every  grass  blade  in  view. 
Strong  earthworks  are  there,  and  the  rifles  behind  them 
Are  Georgia  militia — an  Irish  brigade — 

Their  caps  have  green  badges,  as  if  to  remind  them 
Of  all  the  brave  record  their  country  has  made. 

The  stormers  go  forward — the  Federals  cheer  them  ; 

They  breast  the  smooth  hillside — the  black  mouths  are 
dumb  ; 

The  riflemen  lie  in  the  works  till  they  near  them, 

And  cover  the  stormers  as  upward  they  come. 

Was  ever  a death-march  so  grand  and  so  solemn  ? 

At  last,  the  dark  summit  with  flame  is  enlined  ; 

The  great  guns  belch  doom  on  the  sacrificed  column, 

That  reels  from  the  height,  leaving  hundreds  behind. 

The  armies  are  hushed — there  is  no  cause  for  cheering  : 
The  fall  of  brave  men  to  brave  men  is  a pain. 

Again  come  the  stormers  ! and  as  they  are  nearing 
The  flame-sheeted  rifle-lines,  reel  back  again. 

And  so  till  full  noon  come  the  Federal  masses — 

Flung  back  from  the  height,  as  the  cliff  flings  a wave  ; 


468 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 

Brigade  on  brigade  to  the  death-struggle  passes, 

No  wavering  rank  till  it  steps  on  the  grave. 

Then  comes  a brief  lull,  and  the  smoke-pall  is  lifted, 

The  green  of  the  hillside  no  longer  is  seen  ; 

The  dead  soldiers  lie  as  the  sea- weed  is  drifted, 

The  earthworks  still  held  by  the  badges  of  green. 

Have  they  quailed  ? is  the  word.  No  : again  they  are  form- 
ing— 

Again  comes  a column  to  death  and  defeat ! 

What  is  it  in  these  who  shall  now  do  the  storming 
That  makes  every  Georgian  spring  to  his  feet  ? 

“ O God  ! what  a pity  ! ’ ’ they  cry  in  their  cover, 

As  rifles  are  readied  and  bayonets  made  tight ; 

“’Tis  Meagher  and  his  fellows!  their  caps  have  green 
clover ; 

’Tis  Greek  to  Greek  now  for  the  rest  of  the  fight ! ” 
Twelve  hundred  the  column,  their  rent  flag  before  them, 
With  Meagher  at  their  head,  they  have  dashed  at  the 
hill ! 

Their  foemen  are  proud  of  the  country  that  bore  them ; 

But,  Irish  in  love,  they  are  enemies  still. 

Out  rings  the  fierce  word,  “ Let  them  have  it ! ” the  rifles 
Are  emptied  point-blank  in  the  hearts  of  the  foe  : 

It  is  green  against  green,  but  a principle  stifles 
The  Irishman’s  love  in  the  Georgian’s  blow. 

The  column  has  reeled,  but  it  is  not  defeated  ; 

In  front  of  the  guns  they  re-form  and  attack  ; 

Six  times  they  have  done  it,  and  six  times  retreated  ; 

Twelve  hundred  they  came,  and  two  hundred  go  back. 
Two  hundred  go  back  with  the  chivalrous  story  ; 

The  wild  day  is  closed  in  the  night’s  solemn  shroud  ; 

A thousand  lie  dead,  but  their  death  was  a glory 
That  calls  not  for  tears — the  Green  Badges  are  proud  ! 

Bright  honor  be  theirs  who  for  honor  were  fearless, 

Who  charged  for  their  flag  to  the  grim  cannon’s  mouth  ; 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


469 


And  honor  to  them  who  were  true,  though  not  tearless, — 
Who  bravely  that  day  kept  the  cause  of  the  South. 

The  quarrel  is  done — God  avert  such  another  ; 

The  lesson  it  brought  we  should  evermore  heed  : 

Who  loveth  the  Flag  is  a man  and  a brother, 

No  matter  what  birth  or  what  race  or  what  creed. 


THE  DEAD  SINGER. 


“Q1  HE  is  dead  ! ” they  say  ; “ she  is  robed  for  the  grave  ; 

O there  are  lilies  upon  her  breast ; 

Her  mother  has  kissed  her  clay-cold  lips,  and  folded  her 
hands  to  rest ; 

Her  blue  eyes  show  through  the  waxen  lids  : they  have 
hidden  her  hair’ s gold  crown  ; 

Her  grave  is  dug,  and  its  heap  of  earth  is  waiting  to  press 
her  down.” 

“She  is  dead!”  they  say  to  the  people,  her  people,  for 
whom  she  sung  ; 

Whose  hearts  she  touched  with  sorrow  and  love,  like  a 
harp  with  life -chords  strung. 

And  the  people  hear — but  behind  their  tear  they  smile  as 
though  they  heard 

Another  voice,  like  a mystery,  proclaim  another  word. 

“ She  is  not  dead,”  it  says  to  their  hearts  ; “true  Singers 
can  never  die  ; 

Their  life  is  a voice  of  higher  things,  unseen  to  the  com- 
mon eye  ; 

The  truths  and  the  beauties  are  clear  to  them,  God’s  right 
and  the  human  wrong, 

The  heroes  who  die  unknown,  and  the  weak  who  are 
chained  and  scourged  by  the  strong.” 

And  the  people  smile  at  the  death-word,  for  the  mystic 
voice  is  clear  : 

“The  Singer  who  lived  is  always  alive:  we 

HEARKEN  AND  ALWAYS  HEAR ! ” 


470 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


And  they  raise  her  body  with  tender  hands,  and  bear  her 
down  to  the  main, 

They  lay  her  in  state  on  the  mourning  ship,  like  the  lily- 
maid  Elaine ; 

And  they  sail  to  her  isle  across  the  sea,  where  the  people 
wait  on  the  shore 

To  lift  her  in  silence  with  heads  all  bare  to  her  home 
forevermore, 

Her  home  in  the  heart  of  her  country  ; oh,  a grave  among 
our  own 

Is  warmer  and  dearer  than  living  on  in  the  stranger  lands 
alone. 

No  need  of  a tomb  for  the  Singer ! Her  fair  hair’s  pillow 
now 

Is  the  sacred  clay  of  her  country,  and  the  sky  above  her 
brow 

Is  the  same  that  smiled  and  wept  on  her  youth,  and  the 
grass  around  is  deep 

With  the  clinging  leaves  of  the  shamrock  that  cover  her 
peaceful  sleep. 

Undreaming  there  she  will  rest  and  wait,  in  the  tomb  her 
people  make, 

Till  she  hears  men’s  hearts,  like  the  seeds  in  Spring,  all 
stirring  to  be  awake, 

Till  she  feels  the  moving  of  souls  that  strain  till  the  bands 
around  them  break ; 

And  then,  I think,  her  dead  lips  will  smile  and  her  eyes 
be  oped  to  see, 

When  the  cry  goes  out  to  the  Nations  that  the  Singer’s 
land  is  free ! 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


471 


THE  PRIESTS  OF  IRELAND. 


‘ ‘ The  time  has  arrived  when  the  interests  of  our  country  require 
from  us,  as  priests  and  as  Irishmen,  a public  pronouncement  on  the 
vital  question  of  Home  Rule.  . . . We  suggest  the  holding  of  an  aggre- 
gate meeting  in  Dublin,  of  the  representatives  of  all  interested  in  this 
great  question — and  they  are  the  entire  people,  without  distinction  of 
creed  or  class — for  the  purpose  of  placing,  by  constitutional  means,  on 
a broad  and  definite  basis,  the  nation’s  demand  for  the  restoration  of  its 
plundered  rights.” — Extract  from  the  Declaration  of  the  Bishop  and 
Priests  of  the  Diocese  of  Cloyne,  made  on  September  15,  1873. 


YOU  have  waited,  Priests  of  Ireland,  until  the  hour  was 
late  : 

You  have  stood  with  folded  arms  until  ’twas  asked — Why- 
do  they  wait  % 

By  the  fever  and  the  famine  you  have  seen  your  flocks  grow 
thin, 

Till  the  whisper  hissed  through  Ireland  that  your  silence 
was  a sin. 

You  have  looked  with  tearless  eyes  on  fleets  of  exile-laden 
ships, 

And  the  hands  that  stretched  toward  Ireland  brought  no 
tremor  to  your  lips  ; 

In  the  sacred  cause  of  freedom  you  have  seen  your  people 
band, 

And  they  looked  to  you  for  sympathy  : you  never  stirred 
a hand  ; 

But  you  stood  upon  the  altar,  with  their  blood  within  your 
veins, 

And  you  bade  the  pale-faced  people  to  be  patient  in  their 
chains ! 

Ah,  you  told  them — it  was  cruel — but  you  said  they  were 
not  true 


472  JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 

To  the  holy  faith  of  Patrick,  if  they  were  not  ruled  by 
you  ; 

Yes,  you  told  them  from  the  altar— they,  the  vanguard  of 
the  Faith— 

With  your  eyes  like  flint  against  them — that  their  banding 
was  a death — 

Was  a death  to  something  holy  : till  the  heart-wrung  peo- 
ple cried 

That  their  priests  had  turned  against  them — that  they  had 
no  more  a guide — 

That  the  English  gold  had  bought  you — yes,  they  said  it — 
but  they  lied ! 

Yea,  they  lied,  they  sinned,  not  knowing  you — they  had 
not  gauged  your  love  : 

Heaven  bless  you,  Priests  of  Ireland,  for  the  wisdom  from 
above, 

For  the  strength  that  made  you,  loving  them,  crush  back 
the  tears  that  rose 

When  your  country’s  heart  was  quiv’ring  ’neath  the  states- 
man’s muffled  blows  : 

You  saw  clearer  far  than  they  did,  and  you  grieved  for 
Ireland’s  pain  ; 

But  you  did  not  rouse  the  people — and  your  silence  was 
their  gain  ; 

For  too  often  has  the  peasant  dared  to  dash  his  naked  arm 

’ Gainst  the  saber  of  the  soldier : but  you  shielded  him 
from  harm, 

And  your  face  was  set  against  him — though  your  heart  was 
with  his  hand 

When  it  flung  aside  the  plow  to  snatch  a pike  for  father- 
land  ! 

O,  God  bless  you,  Priests  of  Ireland  ! You  were  waiting 
with  a will, 

You  were  waiting  with  a purpose  when  you  bade  your  flocks 
be  still ; 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES.  473 

And  you  preached  from  off  your  altars  not  alone  the  Word 
Sublime, 

But  your  silence  preached  to  Irishmen — “Be  patient: 
bide  your  time  ! ” 

And  they  heard  you,  and  obeyed,  as  well  as  outraged  men 
could  do  : — 

Only  some,  who  loved  poor  Ireland,  but  who  erred  in 
doubting  you, 

Doubting  you,  who  could  not  tell  them  why  you  spake  the 
strange  behest — 

You,  who  saw  the  day  was  coming  when  the  moral  strength 
was  best — 

You,  whose  hearts  were  sore  with  looking  on  your  coun- 
try’s quick  decay — 

You,  whose  chapel  seats  were  empty  and  your  people  fled 
away — 

You,  who  marked  amid  the  fields  where  once  the  peasant’s 
cabin  stood — 

You,  who  saw  your  kith  and  kindred  swell  the  emigra- 
tion flood — 

You,  the  sog garth  in  the  famine,  and  the  helper  in  the 
frost — 

You,  whose  shadow  was  a sunshine  when  all  other  hope 
was  lost — 

Yes,  they  doubted — and  you  knew  it— but  you  never  said 
a word ; 

Only  preached,  “ Be  still : be  patient ! ” and,  thank  God, 
your  voice  was  heard. 

Now,  the  day  foreseen  is  breaking — it  has  dawned  upon 
the  land, 

And  the  priests  still  preach  in  Ireland  : do  they  bid  their 
flocks  disband  \ 

Do  they  tell  them  still  to  suffer  and  be  silent  ? No  ! their 
words 

Flash  from  Dublin  Bay  to  Connaught,  brighter  than  the 
gleam  of  swords  ! 

Flash  from  Donegal  to  Kerry,  and  from  Waterford  to 
Clare, 


474 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


And  the  nationhood  awaking  thrills  the  sorrow-laden  air. 

Well  they  judged  their  time — they  waited  till  the  bar  was 
glowing  white, 

Then  they  swung  it  on  the  anvil,  striking  down  with 
earnest  might, 

And  the  burning  sparks  that  scatter  lose  no  luster  on  their 
way, 

Till  five  million  hearts  in  Ireland  and  ten  millions  far  away 

Feel  the  first  good  blow,  and  answer ; and  they  will  not 
rest  with  one  : 

Now  the  first  is  struck,  the  anvil  shows  the  labor  well 
begun  ; 

Swing  them  in  with  lusty  sinew  and  the  work  will  soon  be 
done  ! 

Let  them  sound  from  hoary  Cashel  ; Kerry,  Meath,  and 
Ross  stand  forth  ; 

Let  them  ring  from  Cloyne  and  Tuam  and  the  Primate  of 
the  North  ; 

Ask  not  class  or  creed  : let  “ Ireland  ! ” be  the  talismanic 
word  ; 

Let  the  blessed  sound  of  unity  from  North  to  South  be 
heard  ; 

Carve  the  words  : “ No  creed  distinctions  ! ” on  O’  Connell’ s 
granite  tomb, 

And  his  dust  will  feel  their  meaning  and  rekindle  in  the 
gloom. 

Priest  to  priest,  to  sound  the  summons — and  the  answer, 
man  to  man  ; 

With  the  people  round  the  standard,  and  the  prelates  in 
the  van. 

Let  the  heart  of  Ireland’s  hoping  keep  this  golden  rule  of 
Cloyne 

Till  the  Orange  fades  from  Derry  and  the  shadow  from  the 
Boyne. 

Let  the  words  be  carried  outward  till  the  farthest  lands 
they  reach : 

“ After  Christ,  their  country’s  freedom  do  the  Irish  prel- 
ates preach  ! ” 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AN])  SPEECHES. 


475 


A LEGEND  OF  THE  BLESSED  VIRGIN. 


THE  day  of  Joseph’s  marriage  unto  Mary, 

In  thoughful  mood  he  said  unto  his  wife, 

“ Behold,  I go  into  a far-off  country 
To  labor  for  thee,  and  to  make  thy  life 
And  home  all  sweet  and  peaceful.”  And  the  Virgin 
Unquestioning  beheld  her  spouse  depart : 

Then  lived  she  many  days  of  musing  gladness, 

Not  knowing  that  God’s  hand  was  round  her  heart. 

And  dreaming  thus  one  day  within  her  chamber, 

She  wept  with  speechless  bliss,  when  lo  ! the  face 
Of  white-winged  angel  Gabriel  rose  before  her, 

And  bowing  spoke,  “Hail!  Mary,  full  of  grace, 

The  Lord  is  with  thee,  and  among  the  nations 
Forever  blessed  is  thy  chosen  name.” 

The  angel  vanished,  and  the  Lord’s  high  Presence 
With  untold  glory  to  the  Virgin  came. 

A season  passed  of  joy  unknown  to  mortals, 

When  Joseph  came  with  what  his  toil  had  won, 

And  broke  the  brooding  ecstasy  of  Mary, 

Whose  soul  was  ever  with  her  promised  Son. 

But  nature’s  jealous  fears  encircled  Joseph, 

And  round  his  heart  in  darkening  doubts  held  sway. 
He  looked  upon  his  spouse  cold-eyed,  and  pondered 
How  he  could  put  her  from  his  sight  away. 

And  once,  when  moody  thus  within  his  garden, 

The  gentle  girl  besought  for  some  ripe  fruit 
That  hung  beyond  her  reach,  the  old  man  answered, 
With  face  averted,  harshly  to  her  suit : 

“ I will  not  serve  thee,  woman  ! Thou  hast  wronged  me : 
I heed  no  more  thy  words  and  actions  mild  ; 

If  fruit  thou  wantest,  thou  canst  henceforth  ask  it 
From  him,  the  father  of  thy  unborn  child  ! ” 


476 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


But  ere  the  words  had  root  within  her  hearing, 

The  Virgin’s  face  was  glorified  anew  ; 

And  Joseph,  turning,  sank  within  her  presence, 

And  knew  indeed  his  wondrous  dreams  were  true. 
For  there  before  the  sandaled  feet  of  Mary 
The  kingly  tree  had  bowed  its  top,  and  she 
Had  pulled  and  eaten  from  its  prostrate  branches, 
As  if  unconscious  of  the  mystery. 


RELEASED— JANUARY,  1878. 


On  the  5th  of  January,  1878,  three  of  the  Irish  political  prisoners, 
who  had  been  confined  since  1866,  were  set  at  liberty.  The  released 
men  were  received  by  their  fellow-countrymen  in  London.  “They 
are  well,”  said  the  report,  “ but  they  look  prematurely  old.” 


THEY  are  free  at  last ! They  can  face  the  sun  ; 

Their  hearts  now  throb  with  the  world’s  pulsation  ; 
Their  prisons  are  open — their  night  is  done  ; 

’Tis  England’s  mercy  and  reparation  ! 

The  years  of  their  doom  have  slowly  sped — 

Their  limbs  are  withered — their  ties  are  riven  ; 

Their  children  are  scattered,  their  friends  are  dead — 

But  the  prisons  are  open — the  “crime”  forgiven. 

God  ! what  a threshold  they  stand  upon  : 

The  world  has  passed  on  while  they  were  buried  ; 

In  the  glare  of  the  sun  they  walk  alone 
On  the  grass-grown  track  where  the  crowd  has  hurried. 

Haggard  and  broken  and  seared  with  pain, 

They  seek  the  remembered  friends  and  places : 

Men  shuddering  turn,  and  gaze  again 
At  the  deep-drawn  lines  on  their  altered  faces. 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


477 


What  do  they  read  on  the  pallid  page  ? 

What  is  the  tale  of  these  woeful  letters  ? 

A lesson  as  old  as  their  country’s  age, 

Of  a love  that  is  stronger  than  stripes  and  fetters. 

In  the  blood  of  the  slain  some  dip  their  blade, 

And  swear  by  the  stain  the  foe  to  follow  : 

But  a deadlier  oath  might  here  be  made, 

On  the  wasted  bodies  and  faces  hollow. 

Irishmen  ! You  who  have  kept  the  peace — 

Look  on  these  forms  diseased  and  broken : 

Believe,  if  you  can,  that  their  late  release, 

When  their  lives  are  sapped,  is  a good-will  token. 

Their  hearts  are  the  bait  on  England’s  hook  ; 

For  this  are  they  dragged  from  her  hopeless  prison  ; 
She  reads  her  doom  in  the  Nation’s  book — 

She  fears  the  day  that  has  darkly  risen  ; 

She  reaches  her  hand  for  Ireland’s  aid — 

Ireland,  scourged,  contemned,  derided ; 

She  begs  from  the  beggar  her  hate  has  made  ; 

She  seeks  for  the  strength  her  guile  divided. 

She  offers  a bribe — ah,  God  above  ! 

Behold  the  price  of  the  desecration : 

The  hearts  she  has  tortured  for  Irish  love 
She  brings  as  a bribe  to  the  Irish  nation  ! 

O,  blind  and  cruel ! She  fills  her  cup 
With  conquest  and  pride,  till  its  red  wine  splashes  : 
But  shrieks  at  the  draught  as  she  drinks  it  up — 

Her  wine  has  been  turned  to  blood  and  ashes. 

We  know  her — our  Sister ! Come  on  the  storm  ! 

God  send  it  soon  and  sudden  upon  her : 

The  race  she  has  shattered  and  sought  to  deform 
Shall  laugh  as  she  drinks  the  black  dishonor. 


478 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


JOHN  MITCHEL. 

Died  March  20,  1875. 


I. 

DEAD,  with  his  harness  on  him  : 

Rigid  and  cold  and  white, 

Marking  the  place  of  the  vanguard 
Still  in  the  ancient  fight. 

The  climber  dead  on  the  hill- side, 

Before  the  height  is  won  : 

The  workman  dead  on  the  building, 

Before  the  work  is  done  ! 

O,  for  a tongue  to  utter 
The  words  that  should  be  said — 

Of  his  worth  that  was  silver,  living, 

That  is  gold  and  jasper,  dead  ! 

Dead — but  the  death  was  fitting  : 

His  life,  to  the  latest  breath, 

Was  poured  like  wax  on  the  chart  of  right, 
And  is  sealed  by  the  stamp  of  Death  ! 

Dead — but  the  end  was  fitting  : 

First  in  the  ranks  he  led  ; 

And  he  marks  the  height  of  his  nation’s  gain, 
As  he  lies  in  his  harness — dead  ! 


ii. 

Weep  for  him,  Ireland — mother  lonely ; 

Weep  for  the  son  who  died  for  thee. 
Wayward  he  was,  but  he  loved  thee  only, 
Loyal  and  fearless  as  son  could  be. 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


479 


Weep  for  liim,  Ireland — sorrowing  nation 
Faithful  to  all  who  are  true  to  thee  : 

Never  a son  in  thy  desolation 
Had  holier  love  for  thy  cause  than  he. 

Sons  of  the  Old  Land,  mark  the  story — 
Mother  and  son  in  the  final  test : 

Weeping  she  sits  in  her  darkened  glory, 
Holding  her  dead  to  her  stricken  breast. 

Only  the  dead  on  her  knees  are  lying — 

Ah,  poor  mother  beneath  the  cross ! 

Strength  is  won  by  the  constant  trying, 
Crowns  are  gemmed  by  the  tears  of  loss ! 

Sons  of  the  Old  Land,  mark  the  story — 
Mother  and  son  to  each  other  true : 

She  called,  and  he  answered,  old  and  hoary, 
And  gave  her  his  life  as  a man  should  do. 

She  may  weep — but  for  us  no  weeping  : 
Tears  are  vain  till  the  work  is  done  ; 

Tears  for  her — but  for  us  the  keeping 
Our  hearts  as  true  as  her  faithful  son. 


A DEAD  MAN. 


THE  Trapper  died — our  hero — and  we  grieved  ; 

In  every  heart  in  camp  the  sorrow  stirred. 

“ His  soul  was  red ! ” the  Indian  cried,  bereaved  ; 

“ A white  man,  he  ! ” the  grim  old  Yankee’s  word. 

So,  brief  and  strong,  each  mourner  gave  his  best— 
How  kind  he  was,  how  brave,  how  keen  to  track  ; 
And  as  we  laid  him  by  the  pines  to  rest, 

A negro  spoke,  with  tears  : “ His  heart  was  black  ! ” 


“ Island  of  Destiny  ! Innisfail ! for  thy  faith  is  the  'pay- 
ment near  ! 

The  mine  of  the  future  is  opened , and  the  golden  veins 
appear. 

Thy  hands  are  white  and  thy  page  unstained.  Reach  out 
for  thy  glorious  years , 

And  take  them  from  God  as  his  recompense  for  thy 
fortitude  and  tears.” 


460 


A NATION’S  TEST. 


READ  AT  THE  O’CONNELL  CENTENNIAL  IN  BOSTON,  ON 
AUGUST  6,  1875. 

I. 

A NATION’S  greatness  lies  in  men,  not  acres  ; 

One  master-mind  is  worth  a million  hands. 

No  royal  robes  have  marked  the  planet-shakers, 

But  Samson-strength  to  burst  the  ages’  bands. 

The  might  of  empire  gives  no  crown  supernal — 

Athens  is  here — but  where  is  Macedon  ? 

A dozen  lives  make  Greece  and  Borne  eternal, 

And  England’s  fame  might  safely  rest  on  one. 

Here  test  and  text  are  drawn  from  Nature’s  preaching  : 
Afric  and  Asia — half  the  rounded  earth — 

In  teeming  lives  the  solemn  truth  are  teaching, 

That  insect-millions  may  have  human  birth. 

Sun-kissed  and  fruitful,  every  clod  is  breeding 
A petty  life,  too  small  to  reach  the  eye  : 

So  must  it  be,  with  no  man  thinking,  leading, 

The  generations  creep  their  course  and  die. 

Hapless  the  lands,  and  doomed  amid  the  races, 

That  give  no  answer  to  this  royal  test ; 

Their  toiling  tribes  will  droop  ignoble  faces, 

Till  earth  in  pity  takes  them  back  to  rest. 

, A vast  monotony  may  not  be  evil, 

But  God’s  light  tells  us  it  cannot  be  good  ; 

Valley  and  hill  have  beauty — but  the  level 
Must  bear  a shadeless  and  a stagnant  brood. 

481 


482 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


II. 

I bring  the  touchstone.  Motherland,  to  thee, 

And  test  thee  trembling,  fearing  thou  shouldst  fail ; 
If  fruitless,  sonless,  thou  wert  proved  to  be, 

Ah,  what  would  love  and  memory  avail  ? 


Brave  land  ! God  has  blest  thee  ! 

Thy  strong  heart  I feel, 

As  I touch  thee  and  test  thee — 

Dear  land  ! As  the  steel 
To  the  magnet  flies  upward,  so  rises  thy  breast, 
With  a motherly  pride  to  the  touch  of  the  test. 


hi. 

See  ! she  smiles  beneath  the  touchstone,  looking  on  her 
distant  youth, 

Looking  down  her  line  of  leaders  and  of  workers  for  the 
truth. 

Ere  the  Teuton,  Norseman,  Briton,  left  the  primal  wood- 
land spring, 

When  their  rule  was  might  and  rapine,  and  their  law  a 
painted  king  ; 

When  the  sun  of  art  and  learning  still  was  in  the 
Orient ; 

When  the  pride  of  Babylonia  under  Cyrus’  hand  was 
slient ; 

When  the  sphinx’s  introverted  eye  turned  fresh  from 
Egypt’s  guilt ; 

When  the  Persian  bowed  to  Athens  ; when  the  Parthenon 
was  built ; 

When  the  Macedonian  climax  closed  the  Commonwealths 
of  Greece ; 

When  the  wrath  of  Roman  manhood  burst  on  Tarquin  for 
Lucrece — 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


483 


Then  was  Erin  rich  in  knowledge — thence  from  out  her 
Ollamh’ s store — 

Kenned  to-day  by  students  only — grew  her  ancient  Sen- 
cJms  More  ; * 

Then  were  reared  her  mighty  builders,  who  made  temples 
to  the  sun — 

There  they  stand — the  old  Round  Towers — showing  how 
their  work  was  done  : 

Thrice  a thousand  years  upon  them — shaming  all  our  later 
art — 

Warning  fingers  raised  to  tell  us  we  must  build  with  rev- 
’rent  heart. 

Ah,  we  call  thee  Mother  Erin  ! Mother  thou  in  right  of 
years ; 

Mother  in  the  large  fruition — mother  in  the  joys  and 
tears. 

All  thy  life  has  been  a symbol  — we  can  only  read  a 
part : 

God  will  flood  thee  yet  with  sunshine  for  the  woes  that 
drench  thy  heart. 

All  thy  life  has  been  symbolic  of  a human  mother’ s life  : 

Youth’s  sweet  hopes  and  dreams  have  vanished,  and  the 
travail  and  the  strife 

Are  upon  thee  in  the  present ; but  thy ‘work  until  to-day 

Still  has  been  for  truth  and  manhood — and  it  shall  not  pass 
away  : 

Justice  lives,  though  judgment  lingers — angels’  feet  are 
heavy  shod — 

But  a planet’s  years  are  moments  in  th’  eternal  day  of 
God! 


* “ Senchus  More,”  or  Great  Law,  the  title  of  the  Brelion  Laws,  translated 
by  O’Donovan  and  O’Curry.  Ollamh  Fola,  who  reigned  900  years  b.c.,  or- 
ganized a triennial  parliament  at  Tara,  of  the  chiefs,  priests,  and  bards,  who 
digested  the  laws  into  a record  called  the  Psalter  of  Tara.  Ollamh  Fola 
founded  schools  of  history,  medicine,  philosophy,  poetry,  and  astronomy, 
which  were  protected  by  his  successors.  Kimbath  (450  b.c.)  and  Hugony 
(300  b.c.)  also  promoted  the  civil  interests  of  the  kingdom  in  a remarkable 
manner. 


484 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


IV. 

Out  from  the  valley  of  death  and  tears, 

From  the  war  and  want  of  a thousand  years, 

From  the  mark  of  sword  and  the  rust  of  chain, 
From  the  smoke  and  blood  of  the  penal  laws, 

The  Irishmen  and  the  Irish  cause 
Come  out  in  the  front  of  the  field  again  ! 

What  says  the  stranger  to  such  a vitality  ? 

What  says  the  statesman  to  this  nationality  ? 

Flung  on  the  shore  of  a sea  of  defeat, 

Hardly  the  swimmers  have  sprung  to  their  feet, 

When  the  nations  are  thrilled  by  a clarion-word, 

And  Burke,  the  philosopher-statesman,  is  heard. 

When  shall  his  equal  be  ? Down  from  the  stellar  height 
Sees  he  the  planet  and  all  on  its  girth — 

India,  Columbia,  and  Europe — his  eagle-sight 
Sweeps  at  a glance  all  the  wrong  upon  earth. 

Races  or  sects  were  to  him  a profanity  : 

Hindoo  and  Negro  and  Kelt  were  as  one  ; 

Large  as  mankind  was  his  splendid  humanity, 

Large  in  its  record  the  work  he  has  done. 


v. 

What  need  to  mention  men  of  minor  note, 

When  there  be  minds  that  all  the  heights  attain  \ 
What  school-boy  knoweth  not  the  hand  that  wrote 
“ Sweet  Auburn,  loveliest  village  of  the  plain  ?” 
What  man  that  speaketh  English  e’er  can  lift 
His  voice  ’mid  scholars,  who  hath  missed  the  lore 
Of  Berkeley,  Curran,  Sheridan,  and  Swift, 

The  art  of  Foley  and  the  songs  of  Moore  ? 

Grattan  and  Flood  and  Emmet — where  is  he 
That  hath  not  learned  respect  for  such  as  these  ? 
Who  loveth  humor,  and  hath  yet  to  see 
Lover  and  Prout  and  Lever  and  Maclise  \ 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


485 


VI. 

Great  men  grow  greater  by  the  lapse  of  time  : 

We  know  those  least  whom  we  have  seen  the  latest ; 

And  they,  ’mongst  those  whose  names  have  grown  sublime, 
Who  worked  for  Human  Liberty,  are  greatest. 

And  now  for  one  who  allied  will  to  work, 

And  thought  to  act,  and  burning  speech  to  thought ; 

Who  gained  the  prizes  that  were  seen  by  Burke — 

Burke  felt  the  wrong — O’  Connell  felt,  and  fought. 

Ever  the  same — from  boyhood  up  to  death  : 

His  race  was  crushed — his  people  were  defamed  ; 

He  found  the  spark,  and  fanned  it  with  his  breath, 

And  fed  the  fire,  till  all  the  nation  flamed  ! 

He  roused  the  farms — he  made  the  serf  a yeoman  ; 

He  drilled  his  millions  and  he  faced  the  foe  ; 

But  not  with  lead  or  steel  he  struck  the  foeman  : 

Reason  the  sword — and  human  right  the  blow. 

He  fought  for  home — but  no  land-limit  bounded 
O’Connell’s  faith,  nor  curbed  his  sympathies  ; 

All  wrong  to  liberty  must  be  confounded, 

Till  men  were  chainless  as  the  winds  and  seas. 

He  fought  for  faith — but  with  no  narrow  spirit ; 

With  ceaseless  hand  the  bigot  laws  he  smote  ; 

One  chart,  he  said,  all  mankind  should  inherit, — 

The  right  to  worship  and  the  right  to  vote. 

Always  the  same — but  yet  a glinting  prism  : 

In  wit,  law,  statecraft,  still  a master-hand  ; 

An  “ uncrowned  king,”  whose  people’s  love  was  chrism  ; 
His  title — Liberator  of  his  Land  ! 

“ His  heart’s  in  Rome,  his  spirit  is  in  heaven  ” — 

So  runs  the  old  song  that  his  people  sing  ; 


486 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


A tall  Round  Tower  they  builded  in  Glasnevin — 
Fit  Irish  headstone  for  an  Irish  king ! 


Oh  Motherland  ! there  is  no  cause  to  doubt  thee : 

Thy  mark  is  left  on  every  shore  to-day. 

Though  grief  and  wrong  may  cling  like  robes  about  thee, 
Thy  motherhood  will  keep  thee  queen  alway. 

In  faith  and  patience  working,  and  believing 
Not  power  alone  can  make  a noble  state  : 

Whate’er  the  land,  though  all  things  else  conceiving, 
Unless  it  breed  great  men,  it  is  not  great. 

Go  on,  dear  land,  and  midst  the  generations 
Send  out  strong  men  to  cry  the  word  aloud  ; 

Thy  niche  is  empty  still  amidst  the  nations — 

Go  on  in  faith,  and  God  must  raise  the  cloud. 


Let  love  depend  ; 
Neither  by  actions  done 
Choose  ye  the  friend. 

Let  the  slow  years  fly — 
These  are  the  test ; 
Never  to  peering  eye 
Open  the  breast. 

Psyche  won  hopeless  woe, 
Reaching  to  take ; 
Wait  till  your  lilies  grow 
Up  from  the  lake. 

Gather  words  patiently ; 
Harvest  the  deed  ; 


VII. 


LOVE,  AND  BE  WISE. 


OT  on  the  word  alone 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


487 


Let  the  winged  years  fly, 
Sifting  the  seed. 

Judging  by  harmony, 
Learning  by  strife ; 
Seeking  in  unity 
Precept  and  life. 

Seize  the  supernal — 
Prometheus  dies ; 

Take  the  external 

On  trust — and  be  wise. 


WHEAT  GRAINS. 


AS  grains  from  chaff,  I sift  these  worldly  rules, 
Kernels  of  wisdom,  from  the  husks  of  schools  : 

i. 

Benevolence  befits  the  wisest  mind  ; 

But  he  who  has  not  studied  to  be  kind, 

Who  grants  for  asking,  gives  without  a rule, 

Hurts  whom  he  helps,  and  proves  himself  a fool. 

ii. 

The  wise  man  is  sincere  : but  he  who  tries 
To  be  sincere,  hap-hazard,  is  not  wise. 

hi. 

Knowledge  is  gold  to  him  who  can  discern 
That  he  who  loves  to  know,  must  love  to  learn. 


iv. 

Straightforward  speech  is  very  certain  good  ; 
But  he  who  has  not  learned  its  rule  is  rude. 


488 


JOHN  BOYLE  O7  REILLY. 


Y. 

Boldness  and  firmness,  these  are  virtues  each, 
Noble  in  action,  excellent  in  speech. 

But  who  is  bold,  without  considerate  skill, 

Rashly  rebels,  and  has  no  law  but  will ; 

While  he  called  firm,  illiterate  and  crass, 

With  mulish  stubbornness  obstructs  the  pass. 

VI. 

The  mean  of  soul  are  sure  their  faults  to  gloss, 

And  find  a secret  gain  in  others’  loss. 

VII. 

Applause  the  bold  man  wins,  respect  the  grave ; 
Some,  only  being  not  modest,  think  they’re  brave. 

VIII. 

The  petty  wrong-doer  may  escape  unseen ; 

But  what  from  sight  the  moon  eclipsed  shall  screen 
Superior  minds  must  err  in  sight  of  men, 

Their  eclipse  o’er,  they  rule  the  world  again. 

IX. 

Temptation  waits  for  all,  and  ills  will  come  ; 

But  some  go  out  and  ask  the  devil  home. 


x. 

“ I love  God,”  said  the  saint.  God  spake  above  : 

“ Who  loveth  me  must  love  those  whom  I love.” 

“ I scourge  myself,”  the  hermit  cried.  God  spake : 
“Kindness  is  prayer  ; but  not  a self-made  ache.” 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


489 


THE  PRICELESS  THINGS. 


THOSE  are  vulgar  things  we  pay  for,  be  they  stones  for 
crowns  of  kings ; 

While  the  precious  and  the  peerless  are  unpriced  sym- 
bolic things. 

Common  debts  are  scored  and  canceled,  weighed  and  meas- 
ured out  for  gold  ; 

But  the  debts  from  men  to  ages,  their  account  is  never 
told. 

Always  see,  the  noblest  nations  keep  their  highest  prize 
unknown ; 

Ckseronea’s  deathless  lion  frowned  above  unlettered 
stone. 

Ah,  the  Greeks  knew ! Come  their  victors  honored  from 
the  sacred  games, 

Under  arches  red  with  roses,  flushed  to  hear  their  shouted 
names  ; 

See  their  native  cities  take  them,  breach  the  wall  to  make 
a gate ! 

What  supreme  reward  is  theirs  who  bring  such  honors  to 
their  state  ? 

In  the  forum  stand  they  proudly,  take  their  prizes  from 
the  priest : 

Little  wreaths  of  pine  and  parsley  on  their  naked  temples 
pressed ! 

We  in  later  days  are  lower  ? When  a manful  stroke  is 
made, 

We  must  raise  a purse  to  pay  it — making  manliness  a 
trade. 


490 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


Sacrifice  itself  grows  venal — surely  Midas  will  subscribe  ; 

And  the  shallow  souls  are  gratified  when  worth  accepts  the 
bribe. 

•5B 

But  e’en  here,  amidst  the  markets,  there  are  things  they 
dare  not  prize ; 

Dollars  hide  their  sordid  faces  when  they  meet  annointed 
eyes. 

Lovers  do  not  speak  with  jewels — flowers  alone  can  plead 
for  them  ; 

And  one  fragrant  memory  cherished  is  far  dearer  than  a 
gem. 

Statesmen  steer  the  nation  safely  ; artists  pass  the  burning 
test ; 

And  their  country  pays  them  proudly  with  a ribbon  at  the 
breast. 

When  the  soldier  saves  the  battle,  wraps  the  flag  around 
his  heart, 

Who  shall  desecrate  his  honor  with  the  values  of  the  mart  ? 

From  his  guns  of  bronze  we  hew  a piece,  and  carve  it  as  a 
cross ; 

For  the  gain  he  gave  was  priceless,  as  unpriced  would  be 
the  loss. 

When  the  poet  sings  the  love-song,  or  the  song  of  life  and 
death, 

Till  the  workers  cease  their  toiling  with  abated  wondering 
breath  ; 

When  he  gilds  the  mill  and  mine,  inspires  the  slave  to  rise 
and  dare  : 

Lights  with  love  the  cheerless  garret,  bids  the  tyrant  to 
beware ; 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


491 


When  he  steals  the  pang  from  poverty  with  meanings  new 
and  clear, 

Reconciling  pain  and  peace,  and  bringing  blissful  visions 
near ; — 

His  reward?  Nor  cross  nor  ribbon,  but  all  others  high 
above ; 

They  have  won  their  glittering  symbols — he  has  earned  the 
people’s  love ! 


THE  RAINBOW’S  TREASURE. 


WHERE  the  foot  of  the  rainbow  meets  the  field, 
And  the  grass  resplendent  glows, 

The  earth  will  a precious  treasure  yield, 

So  the  olden  story  goes. 

In  a crystal  cup  are  the  diamonds  piled 
For  him  who  can  swiftly  chase 
Over  torrent  and  desert  and  precipice  wild, 

To  the  rainbow’s  wandering  base. 


There  were  two  in  the  field  at  work,  one  day, 
Two  brothers,  who  blithely  sung, 

When  across  their  valley’s  deep-winding  way 
The  glorious  arch  was  flung  ! 

And  one  saw  naught  but  a sign  of  rain, 

And  feared  for  his  sheaves  unbound  ; 

And  one  is  away,  over  mountain  and  plain, 
Till  the  mystical  treasure  is  found  ! 


Through  forest  and  stream,  in  a blissful  dream, 
The  rainbow  lured  him  on  ; 

With  a siren’s  guile  it  loitered  awhile, 

Then  leagues  away  was  gone. 

Over  brake  and  brier  he  followed  fleet ; 

The  people  scoffed  as  he  passed  ; 

But  in  thirst  and  heat,  and  with  wounded  feet, 
He  nears  the  prize  at  last. 


492 


JOHN  BOTTLE  O’REILLY. 


It  is  closer  and  closer — lie  wins  the  race — 

One  strain  for  the  goal  in  sight : 

Its  radiance  falls  on  his  yearning  face — 

The  blended  colors  unite  ! 

He  laves  his  brow  in  the  iris  beam — 

He  reaches — Ah  woe  ! the  sound 

From  the  misty  gulf  where  he  ends  his  dream, 
And  the  crystal  cup  is  found ! 

’Tis  the  old,  old  story : one  man  will  read 
His  lesson  of  toil  in  the  sky ; 

W hile  another  is  blind  to  the  present  need, 

But  sees  with  the  spirit’s  eye. 

You  may  grind  their  souls  in  the  self-same  mill, 
You  may  bind  them,  heart  and  brow  ; 

But  the  poet  will  follow  the  rainbow  still, 

And  his  brother  will  follow  the  plow. 


A WHITE  ROSE. 


THE  red  rose  whispers  of  passion, 

And  the  white  rose  breathes  of  love  ; 
Oh,  the  red  rose  is  a falcon, 

And  the  white  rose  is  a dove. 

But  I send  you  a cream-white  rosebud 
With  a flush  on  its  petal  tips  ; 

For  the  love  that  is  purest  and  sweetest 
Has  a kiss  of  desire  on  the  lips. 


YES? 


THE  words  of  the  lips  are  double  or  single, 
True  or  false,  as  we  say  or  sing  : 

But  the  words  of  the  eyes  that  mix  and  mingle 
Are  always  saying  the  same  old  thing ! 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


493 


WAITING. 


HE  is  coming ! he  is  coming ! in  my  throbbing  breast  I 
feel  it ; 

There  is  music  in  my  blood,  and  it  whispers  all  day  long, 
That  my  love  unknown  comes  toward  me  ! Ah,  my  heart, 
he  need  not  steal  it, 

For  I cannot  hide  the  secret  that  it  murmurs  in  its  song ! 

O the  sweet  bursting  flowers  ! how  they  open,  never  blush- 
ing, 

Laying  bare  their  fragrant  bosoms  to  the  kisses  of  the 
sun ! 

And  the  birds — I thought  ’twas  poets  only  read  their  ten- 
der gushing, 

But  I hear  their  pleading  stories,  and  I know  them  every 
one. 

“ He  is  coming  ! ” says  my  heart ; I may  raise  my  eyes  and 
greet  him  ; 

I may  meet  him  any  moment — shall  I know  him  when  I 
see  ? 

And  my  heart  laughs  back  the  answer — I can  tell  him  when 
I meet  him, 

For  our  eyes  will  kiss  and  mingle  ere  he  speaks  a word 
to  me. 

O,  I’m  longing  for  his  coming — in  the  dark  my  arms  out- 
reaching  ; 

To  hasten  you,  my  love,  see,  I lay  my  bosom  bare  ! 

Ah,  the  night- wind  ! I shudder,  and  my  hands  are  raised 
beseeching — 

It  wailed  so  light  a death-sigh  that  passed  me  in  the  air ! 


494 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


CHUNDER  ALPS  WIFE. 


FROM  THE  HINDOSTANEE. 


“ T AM  poor,”  said  Chunder  Ali,  while  the  Mandarin 
J-  above  him 

Frowned  in  supercilious  anger  at  the  dog  who  dared  to 
speak  ; 

“ I am  friendless  and  a Hindoo  : such  a one  meets  few  to 
love  him 

Here  in  China,  where  the  Hindoo  finds  the  truth  alone  is 
weak. 

I have  naught  to  buy  your  justice  ; were  I wise,  I had  not 
striven. 

Speak  your  judgment ; ” and  he  crossed  his  arms  and  bent 
his  quivering  face. 

Heard  he  then  the  unjust  sentence  : all  his  goods  and  gold 
were  given 

To  another,  and  he  stood  alone,  a beggar  in  the  place. 

And  the  man  who  bought  the  judgment  looked  in  triumph 
and  derision 

At  the  cheated  Hindoo  merchant,  as  he  rubbed  his  hands 
and  smiled 

At  the  whispered  gratulation  of  his  friends,  and  at  the 
vision 

Of  the  more  than  queenly  dower  for  Alimeer,  his  only 
child. 

Fair  Alimeer,  who  of  God’s  creatures  was  the  only  one 
who  loved  him, 

She,  the  diamond  of  his. treasures,  the  one  lamb  within 
his  fold, 

She,  whose  voice,  like  her  dead  mother’s,  was  the  only 
power  that  moved  him, — 

She  would  praise  the  skill  that  gained  her  all  this  Hindoo’s 
silk  and  gold. 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES.  495 

And  the  old  man  thanked  Confucius,  and  the  judge,  and 
him  who  pleaded. 

But  why  falls  this  sudden  silence  ? why  does  each  one  hold 
his  breath  ? 

Every  eye  turns  on  the  Hindoo,  who  before  was  all  un- 
heeded, 

And  in  wond’ring  expectation  all  the  court  grows  still  as 
death. 

Not  alone  stood  Chunder  Ali:  by  his  side  Ahmeer  was 
standing, 

And  his  brown  hand  rested  lightly  on  her  shoulder  as  he 
smiled 

At  the  sweet  young  face  turned  toward  him.  Then  the 
father’s  voice  commanding 

Fiercely  bade  his  daughter  to  him  from  the  dog  whose 
touch  defiled. 

But  she  moved  not,  and  she  looked  not  at  her  father  or  the 
others 

As  she  answered,  with  her  eyes  upon  the  Hindoo’ s noble 
face : 

“Nay,  my  father,  he  defiles  not:  this  kind  arm  above  all 
others 

Is  my  choosing,  and  forever  by  his  side  shall  be  my  place. 

When  you  knew  not,  his  dear  hand  had  given  many  a 
sweet  love-token, 

He  had  gathered  all  my  heartstrings  and  had  bound  them 
round  his  life  ; 

Yet  you  tell  me  he  defiles  me  ; nay,  my  father,  you  have 
spoken 

In  your  anger,  and  not  knowing  I was  Chunder  Ali’s 
wife.” 


496 


JOHN  BOYLE  o’  REILLY* 


A KISS. 


LOVE  is  a plant  with  double  root, 

And  of  strange,  elastic  power  : 

Men’s  minds  are  divided  in  naming  the  fruit, 
But  a kiss  is  only  the  flower. 


JACQUEMINOTS. 


I MAY  not  speak  in  words,  dear,  but  let  my  words  be 
flowers, 

To  tell  their  crimson  secret  in  leaves  of  fragrant  fire  ; 
They  plead  for  smiles  and  kisses  as  summer  fields  for 
showers, 

And  every  purple  veinlet  thrills  with  exquisite  desire. 

O,  let  me  see  the  glance,  dear,  the  gleam  of  soft  confession 
You  give  my  amorous  roses  for  the  tender  hope  they 
prove  ; 

And  press  their  heart-leaves  back,  love,  to  drink  their 
deeper  passion, 

For  their  sweetest,  wildest  perfume  is  the  whisper  of 
my  love  ! 

My  roses,  tell  her,  pleading,  all  the  fondness  and  the 
sighing, 

All  the  longing  of  a heart  that  reaches  thirsting  for  its 
bliss  ; 

And  tell  her,  tell  her,  roses,  that  my  lips  and  eyes  are 
dying 

For  the  melting  of  her  love-look  and  the  rapture  of  her 
kiss. 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


497 


THE  CELEBES. 


The  sons  of  God  came  upon  the  earth  and  took  wives  of  the  daugh- 
of  men.” — Legends  of  the  Talmud. 


DEAR  islands  of  the  Orient, 

Where  Nature’s  first  of  love  was  spent ; 
Sweet  hill-tops  of  the  summered  land 
Where  gods  and  men  went  hand  in  hand 
In  golden  days  of  sinless  earth  ! 

Woe  rack  the  womb  of  time,  that  bore 
The  primal  evil  to  its  birth  ! 

It  came  ; the  gods  were  seen  no  more : 

The  fields  made  sacred  by  their  feet, 

The  flowers  they  loved,  grown  all  too  sweet, 
The  streams  their  bright  forms  mirrored, 

The  fragrant  banks  that  made  their  bed, 

The  human  hearts  round  which  they  wove 
Their  threads  of  superhuman  love — 

These  were  too  dear  and  desolate 
To  sink  to  fallen  man’s  estate  ; 

The  gods  who  loved  them  loosed  the  seas, 
Struck  free  the  barriers  of  the  deep, 

That  rolled  in  one  careering  sweep 
And  filled  the  land,  as  ’twere  a grave, 

And  left  no  beauteous  remnant,  save 
Those  hill-tops  called  the  Celebes. 


LOVE’S  SACRIFICE. 


LOVE’S  Herald  flew  o’er  all  the  fields  of  Greece, 
Crying  : “ Love’s  altar  waits  for  sacrifice  ! ” 
And  all  folk  answered,  like  a wave  of  peace, 

With  treasured  offerings  and  gifts  of  price. 


498 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 

Toward  high  Olympus  every  white  road  filled 
With  pilgrims  streaming  to  the  blest  abode  ; 
Each  bore  rich  tribute,  some  for  joys  fulfilled, 

And  some  for  blisses  lingering  on  the  road. 

The  pious  peasant  drives  his  laden  car ; 

The  fisher  youth  bears  treasure  from  the  sea  ; 

A wife  brings  honey  for  the  sweets  that  are  ; 

A maid  brings  roses  for  the  sweets  to  be. 

Here  strides  the  soldier  with  his  wreathed  sword, 
No  more  to  glitter  in  his  country’s  wars  ; 

There  walks  the  poet  with  his  mystic  word, 

And  smiles  at  Eros’  mild  recruit  from  Mars. 

* 

But  midst  these  bearers  of  propitious  gifts, 

Behold  where  two,  a youth  and  maiden,  stand  : 
She  bears  no  boon  ; his  arm  no  burden  lifts, 

Save  her  dear  fingers  pressed  within  his  hand. 

Their  touch  ignites  the  soft  delicious  fire, 

Whose  rays  the  very  altar-flames  eclipse  ; 

Their  eyes  are  on  each  other — sweet  desire 
And  yearning  passion  tremble  on  their  lips. 

So  fair — so  strong ! Ah,  Love  ! what  errant  wiles 
Have  brought  these  two  so  poor  and  so  unblest  ? 
But  see  ! Instead  of  anger,  Cupid  smiles  ; 

And  lo  ! he  crowns  their  sacrifice  as  best ! 

Their  hands  are  empty,  but  their  hearts  are  filled  ; 

Their  gifts  so  rare  for  all  the  host  suffice  : 

Before  the  altar  is  their  life- wine  spilled — 

The  love  they  long  for  is  their  sacrifice. 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


499 


HER  REFRAIN. 


DO  you  love  me  ? ” she  said,  when  the  skies  were  blue, 
And  we  walked  where  the  stream  through  the 
branches  glistened ; 

And  I told  and  retold  her  my  love  was  true, 

While  she  listened  and  smiled,  and  smiled  and  listened. 

Do  you  love  me  ? ’ 5 she  whispered,  when  days  were  drear, 
And  her  eyes  searched  mine  with  a patient  yearning ; 
And  I kissed  her,  renewing  the  words  so  dear, 

While  she  listened  and  smiled,  as  if  slowly  learning. 

Do  you  love  me  ? ” she  asked,  when  we  sat  at  rest 
By  the  stream  enshadowed  with  autumn  glory  ; 

Her  cheek  had  been  laid  as  in  peace  on  my  breast, 

But  she  raised  it  to  ask  for  the  sweet  old  story. 

And  I said  : “ I will  tell  her  the  tale  again — 

I will  swear  by  the  earth  and  the  stars  above  me  ! ” 
And  I told  her  that  uttermost  time  should  prove 
The  fervor  and  faith  of  my  perfect  love  ; 

And  I vowed  it  and  pledged  it  that  nought  should  move  , 
While  she  listened  and  smiled  in  my  face,  and  then 
She  whispered  once  more,  “ Do  you  truly  love  me?” 


GOLU. 


ONCE  I had  a little  sweetheart 
In  the  land  of  the  Malay, — 
Such  a little  yellow  sweetheart ! 

Warm  and  peerless  as  the  day 
Of  her  own  dear  sunny  island, 
Keimali,  in  the  far,  far  East, 
Where  the  mango  and  banana 
Made  us  many  a merry  feast. 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’  REILLY. 


Such  a little  copper  sweetheart 
Was  my  Golu,  plump  and  round, 
With  her  hair  all  blue-black  streaming 
O’er  her  to  the  very  ground. 

Soft  and  clear  as  dew-drop  clinging 
To  a grass  blade  was  her  eye  ; 

For  the  heart  below  was  purer 

Than  the  hill-stream  whispering  by. 

Costly  robes  were  not  for  Golu  : 

No  more  raiment  did  she  need 
Than  the  milky  budding  breadfruit, 

Or  the  lily  of  the  mead  ; 

And  she  was  my  little  sweetheart 
Many  a sunny  summer  day, 

When  we  ate  the  fragrant  guavas, 

In  the  land  of  the  Malay. 

Life  was  laughing  then.  Ah  ! Golu, 
Do  you  think  of  that  old  time, 

And  of  all  the  tales  I told  you 
Of  my  colder  Western  clime  ? 

Do  you  think  how  happy  were  we 
When  we  sailed  to  strip  the  palm, 
And  we  made  a lateen  arbor 
Of  the  boat-sail  in  the  calm  % 

They  may  call  you  semi-savage, 

Golu  ! I cannot  forget 
How  I poised  my  little  sweetheart 
Like  a copper  statuette. 

Now  my  path  lies  through  the  cities  ; 

But  they  cannot  drive  away 
My  sweet  dreams  of  little  Golu 
And  the  land  of  the  Malay. 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


501 


LOVE’S  SECRET. 


LOVE  found  them  sitting  in  a woodland  place, 

His  amorous  hand  amid  her  golden  tresses  ; 

And  Love  looked  smiling  on  her  glowing  face 
And  moistened  eyes  upturned  to  his  caresses. 

“ O sweet,”  she  murmured,  “ life  is  utter  bliss  ! ” 

“ Dear  heart,”  he  said,  “our  golden  cup  runs  over  ! ” 

“ Drink,  love,”  she  cried,  “ and  thank  the  gods  for  this  ! ” 
He  drained  the  precious  lips  of  cup  and  lover. 

Love  blessed  the  kiss  ; but,  ere  he  wandered  thence, 

The  mated  bosoms  heard  this  benediction : 

“ Lore  lies  within  the  brimming  bowl  of  sense  : 

-JWho  keeps  this  full  has  joy — who  drains , affliction .” 


They  heard  the  rustle  as  he  smiling  fled  : 

She  reached  her  hand  to  pull  the  roses  blowing. 

He  stretched  to  take  the  purple  grapes  o’erhead  ; 

Love  whispered  back,  “Nay,  keep  their  beauties  grow- 
ing.” 

They  paused,  and  understood : one  flower  alone 
They  took  and  kept,  and  Love  flew  smiling  over. 

Their  roses  bloomed,  their  cup  went  brimming  on — 

She  looked  for  love  within,  and  found  her  lover. 


A PASSAGE. 


THE  world  was  made  when  a man  was  born  ; 

He  must  taste  for  himself  the  forbidden  springs, 
He  can  never  take  warning  from  old-fashioned  things  ; 
He  must  fight  as  a boy,  he  must  drink  as  a youth, 

He  must  kiss,  he  must  love,  he  must  swear  to  the  truth 


502 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


Of  the  friend  of  his  soul,  he  must  laugh  to  scorn 
The  hint  of  deceit  in  a woman’s  eyes 
That  are  clear  ns  the  wells  of  Paradise. 

And  so  he  goes  on,  till  the  world*  grows  old, 

Till  his  tongue  has  grown  cautious,  his  heart  has  grown 
cold, 

Till  the  smile  leaves  his  mouth,  and  the  ring  leaves  his 
laugh, 

And  he  shirks  the  bright  headache  you  ask  him  to  quaff  ; 
He  grows  formal  with  men,  and  with  women  polite, 

And  distrustful  of  both  when  they’re  out  of  his  sight ; 
Then  he  eats  for  his  palate,  and  drinks  for  his  head, 

And  loves  for  his  pleasure, — and  ’tis  time  he  was  dead  ! 


A LOST  FRIEND. 


MY  friend  he  was  ; my  friend  from  all  the  rest ; 

With  childlike  faith  he  oped  to  me  his  breast ; 
No  door  was  locked  on  altar,  grave  or  grief ; 

No  weakness  veiled,  concealed  no  disbelief ; 

The  hope,  the  sorrow  and  the  wrong  were  bare, 

And  ah,  the  shadow  only  showed  the  fair ! 

I gave  him  love  for  love  ; but,  deep  within, 

I magnified  each  frailty  into  sin  ; 

Each  hill-topped  foible  in  the  sunset  glowed, 
Obscuring  vales  where  rivered  virtues  flowed. 
Reproof  became  reproach,  till  common  grew 
The  captious  word  at  every  fault  I knew. 

He  smiled  upon  the  censorship,  and  bore 
With  patient  love  the  touch  that  wounded  sore  ; 
Until  at  length,  so  had  my  blindness  grown, 

He  knew  I judged  him  by  his  faults  alone. 

Alone,  of  all  men,  I who  knew  him  best, 

Refused  the  gold,  to  take  the  dross  for  test ! 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES.  503 

Cold  strangers  honored  for  the  worth  they  saw ; 

His  friend  forgot  the  diamond  in  the  flaw. 

At  last  it  came — the  day  he  stood  apart 
When  from  my  eyes  he  proudly  veiled  his  heart ; 
When  carping  judgment  and  uncertain  word 
A stern  resentment  in  his  bosom  stirred  ; 

When  in  his  face  I read  what  I had  been, 

And  with  his  vision  saw  what  he  had  seen. 

Too  late  ! too  late  ! Oh,  could  he  then  have  known, 
When  his  love  died,  that  mine  had  perfect  grown  ; 
That  when  the  veil  was  drawn,  abased,  chastised, 

The  censor  stood,  the  lost  one  truly  prized. 

Too  late  we  learn — a man  must  hold  his  friend 
Unjudged,  accepted,  trusted  to  the  end. 


CONSTANCY. 


“You  gave  me  the  key  of  your  heart,  my  love ; 

Then  why  do  you  make  me  knock  ? ’ ’ 

“ 0,  that  was  yesterday,  Saints  above  ! 

And  last  night — I changed  the  lock  ! ” 


504 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


THE  TEMPLE  OF  FRIENDSHIP. 


IN  the  depths  of  the  silent  wood  the  temple  of  Friendship 
stood, 

Like  a dream  of  snow-white  stone,  or  a vestal  all  alone, 
Undraped  beside  a stream. 

The  pious  from  every  clime  came  there  to  rest  for  a time, 

W ith  incense  and  gifts  and  prayer ; and  the  stainless 
marble  stair 

Was  worn  by  fervent  knees. 

And  everywhere  the  fame  of  the  beautiful  temple  came, 
With  its  altar  white  and  pure,  and  its  worship)  to  allure 
From  gods  that  bring  unrest. 

The  goddess  was  there  to  assuage  (for  this  was  the  Golden 
Age) 

The  trials  of  all  who  staid  and  trustingly  tried  and  prayed 
For  the  perfect  grace. 

Soldier  and  clerk  and  dame  in  couples  and  companies 
came  ; 

There  were  few  who  rode  alone,  for  none  feared  the  othep 
one, 

So  placid  and  safe  the  creed. 

There  came  from  afar  one  day,  with  a suite  in  rich  array, 

A lady  of  beauty  rare,  who  bent  to  the  plaintive  air 
A handsome  minstrel  sung. 

Her  face  was  as  calm  and  cold  as  the  stamp  of  a queen  on 
gold, 

And  the  song  the  poet  sung  to  a restful  theme  was  strung, 

A tranquil  air  of  peace. 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


505 


But,  as  they  happily  rode  to  the  holy  and  white  abode, 

They  were  watched  from  a cloud  above  by  the  mischievous 
god  of  Love, 

Who  envied  Friendship’s  reign. 

They  dreamt  not  of  danger  near,  and  their  hearts  felt  no 
shade  of  fear, 

As  they  laid  their  rich  offerings  of  flowers  and  precious 
things 

At  Friendship’s  lovely  feet. 

They  lingered  long  near  the  shrine,  in  the  air  of  its  peace 
divine  ; 

By  the  shadowed  stream  they  strayed,  where  often  the 
heavenly  maid 

Would  smile  upon  their  rest. 

One  day,  with  her  white  robe  flown,  she  passed  like  a 
dream  alone, 

Where  they  sat  in  a converse  sweet,  with  the  silver  stream 
at  their  feet 

As  still  and  as  wise  as  they. 

To  the  innermost  temple’s  room,  to  the  couch,  and  the 
sacred  loom 

Where  she  weaves  her  placid  will,  the  goddess  came,  smil- 
ing still, 

Unrobing  for  blissful  rest. 

0 lily  of  perfect  mold,  the  world  had  grown  young,  not 
old, 

Had  it  bowed  at  thy  milk-white  feet  with  a love  not  of  fire, 
but  heat, — 

Sweet  lotus  of  soft  repose ! 

Like  the  moon  her  body  glows,  like  the  sun-flushed  Alpine 
snows  ; 


506  JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 

Her  arms  ’neath  her  radiant  head,  she  sleeps,  and  lo  ! o’er 
her  bed 

The  wicked  Cupid  leans. 

Even  he  cannot  fly  the  feast  which  nor  vestal  nor  hoary 
priest 

Had  ever  enjoyed  before.  But,  stealing  her  robe  from  the 
floor, 

He  dons  it  and  is  gone. 

By  the  stream,  in  the  silent  shade,  he  walks  where  the  two 
have  made 

Their  resting-place  for  the  noon:  “’Tis  Friendship!” 
they  cry  ; and  soon 

Love’ s guile  on  their  hearts  is  laid. 

“O,  the  goddess  is  good!”  she  said,  as  she  bent  her 
golden  head 

And  looked  in  the  minstrel’s  face.  “ She  stands  by  our 
resting-place 

And  blesses  our  peaceful  love  ! ” 

As  she  spoke,  a flame  shot  through  her  breast,  and  her 
eyes  of  blue 

Grew  moist  with  a subtle  bliss.  “Sweet  friend!”  she 
cried,  and  her  kiss 

Clung  soft  on  the  poet’s  lips. 

“Ah,  me!”  he  sighed,  “if  they  knew,  those  feverish 
lovers  who  woo 

For  the  passion  of  tears  and  blood,  how  soothing  and  pure 
and  good 

Is  a friendly  kiss — like  this  ! ” 

“ O,  list ! ” she  cried,  “ ’tis  a dove  ; he  calls  for  his  absent 
love  ; 

They  will  sit  all  day  and  coo  calm  friendship,  like  mine 
for  you, — 

Dear  friend,  like  mine  for  you.” 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES.  507 

Their  hands  were  joined,  and  a thrill  of  desire  and  passion- 
ate will 

Brought  his  eyes  her  eyes  above  in  a marvelous  look  of 
love, 

And  Cupid  smiled  and  drew  near. 

“ O sweetest ! ” she  whispered  softly.  “ See ! the  goddess 
is  leaning  over  me, 

And  smiling  with  eyes  like  yours  ! O Goddess  ! thy  pres- 
ence cures 

The  restful  unrest  of  friends  ! ” 

And  Cupid  laughed  in  her  eyes  as  he  threw  off  the  white 
disguise 

And  bent  down  to  kiss  her  himself — but  cuff ! cuff  ! on 
the  ears  of  the  elf 

From  the  goddess  who  sought  her  robe. 

And  the  river  flowed  on  through  the  wood,  and  the  temple 
of  Friendship  stood 

Like  a dream  of  snow-white  stone.  But  the  minstrel 
returned  alone 

From  his  pilgrimage. 


THE  VALUE  OF  GOLD. 


THEBE  may  be  standard  weight  for  precious  metal, 
But  deeper  meaning  it  must  ever  hold  ; 

Thank  God,  there  are  some  things  no  law  can  settle, 
And  one  of  these — the  real  worth  of  gold. 

The  stamp  of  king  or  crown  has  common  power 
To  hold  the  traffic-value  in  control  ; 

Our  coarser  senses  note  this  worth — the  lower ; 

The  higher  comes  from  senses  of  the  soul. 


508 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


This  truth  we  find  not  in  mere  warehouse  learning — 
The  value  varies  with  the  hands  that  hold  ; 

The  worth  depends  upon  the  mode  of  earning ; 

And  this  man’s  copper  equals  that  man’s  gold. 

With  empty  heart,  and  forehead  lined  with  scheming, 
Men’s  sin  and  sorrow  have  been  that  man’s  gain  ; 

But  this  man’s  heart,  with  rich  emotions  teeming, 
Makes  fine  the  gold  for  which  he  coins  his  brain. 

But  richer  still  than  gold  from  upright  labor — 

The  only  gold  that  should  have  standard  price — 

Is  the  poor  earning  of  our  humble  neighbor, 

Whose  every  coin  is  red  with  sacrifice. 

Mere  store  of  money  is  not  wealth,  but  rather 
The  proof  of  poverty  and  need  of  bread. 

Like  men  themselves  is  the  bright  gold  they  gather 
It  may  be  living,  or  it  may  be  dead. 

It  may  be  filled  with  love  and  life  and  vigor, 

To  guide  the  wearer,  and  to  cheer  the  way ; 

It  may  be  corpse-like  in  its  weight  and  rigor, 

Bending  the  bearer  to  his  native  clay. 

There  is  no  comfort  but  in  outward  showing 
In  all  the  servile  homage  paid  to  dross  ; 

Better  to  heart  and  soul  the  silent  knowing 
Our  little  store  has  not  been  gained  by  loss. 


TO-DAY. 


/YNLY  from  day  to  day 
^ The  life  of  a wise  man  runs  ; 
What  matter  if  seasons  far  away 
Have  gloom  or  have  double  suns  ? 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


509 


« 


To  climb  the  unreal  path, 

We  stray  from  the  roadway  here ; 

We  swim  the  rivers  of  wrath, 

And  tunnel  the  hills  of  fear. 

Our  feet  on  the  torrent’s  brink, 

Our  eyes  on  the  cloud  afar, 

We  fear  the  things  we  think, 
Instead  of  the  things  that  are. 

Like  a tide  our  work  should  rise — 
Each  later  wave  the  best ; 

To-day  is  a king  in  disguise,* 
To-day  is  the  special  test. 

Like  a sawyer’s  work  is  life  : 

The  present  makes  the  flaw, 

And  the  only  field  for  strife 
Is  the  inch  before  the  saw. 


A BUILDER’S  LESSON. 


OW  shall  I a habit  break  ? ” 


As  you  did  that  habit  make. 
As  you  gathered,  you  must  lose  ; 

As  you  yielded,  now  refuse. 

Thread  by  thread  the  strands  we  twist 
Till  they  bind  us  neck  and  wrist ; 
Thread  by  thread  the  patient  hand 
Must  untwine  ere  free  we  stand. 

As  we  builded,  stone  by  stone, 

We  must  toil  unhelped,  alone, 

Till  the  wall  is  overthrown. 


* “The  days  are  ever  divine  ....  They  come  and  go  like  muffled  and 
veiled  figures,  sent  from  a distant  friendly  party  ; but  they  say  nothing  ; and 
if  we  do  not  use  the  gifts  they  bring,  they  carry  them  as  silently  away.” — 
Emerson. 


510 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


But  remember,  as  we  try, 

Lighter  every  test  goes  by  ; 

Wading  in,  the  stream  grows  deep 
Toward  the  center’s  downward  sweep ; 
Backward  turn,  each  step  ashore 
Shallower  is  than  that  before. 

Ah,  the  precious  years  we  waste 
Leveling  what  we  raised  in  haste  ; 

Doing  what  must  be  undone 
Ere  content  or  love  be  won  ! 

First  across  the  gulf  we  cast 
Kite-borne  threads,  till  lines  are  passed, 
And  habit  builds  the  bridge  at  last ! 


HEY  brought  them  up  from  their  huts  in  the  fens, 


The  woeful  sufferers  gaunt  and  grim  ; 

They  flocked  from  the  city’s  noisome  dens 
To  the  Monarch’s  throne  to  be  touched  by  him. 

“For  his  touch,”  they  whisper,  “ is  sovereign  balm, 
The  anointed  King  has  a power  to  heal.” 

Oh,  the  piteous  prayers  as  the  royal  palm 
Is  laid  on  their  necks  while  they  humbly  kneel ! 

Blind  hope  ! But  the  cruel  and  cold  deceit 
A rich  reward  to  the  palace  brings  ; 

A snare  for  the  untaught  People’s  feet, 

And  a courtier’s  lie  for  the  good  of  Kings. 

But  the  years  are  sands,  and  they  slip  away 
Till  the  baseless  wall  in  the  sun  lies  bare  ; 

The  touch  of  the  King  has  no  balm  to-day, 

And  the  Bight  Divine  is  the  People’s  share. 

The  word  remains  : but  the  Evil  now 

Is  caused,  not  cured,  by  imperial  hands, — 


THE  KING’S  EVIL. 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


511 


The  lightless  soul  and  the  narrow  brow, 

The  servile  millions  in  armed  bands  ; 

The  sweat- wrung  gold  from  the  peasant’s  toil 
Flung  merrily  out  by  the  gambling  lord, 

Who  is  reckless  owner  of  serf  and  soil, 

And  master  of  church  and  law  and  sword. 

But  the  night  has  receded  : the  dawn  like  a tide 
Creeps  slow  round  the  world,  till  the  feet  of  the  throne 
Are  lapped  by  the  waves  that  shall  seethe  and  ride 
Where  the  titles  are  gulfed  and  the  shields  overblown. 
Our  Kings  are  the  same  as  the  Kings  of  old, 

But  a Man  stands  up  where  there  crouched  a clown  ; 
The  Evil  shall  die  when  his  hand  grows  bold, 

And  the  touch  of  the  People  is  laid  on  the  Crown ! 


BONE  AND  SINEW  AND  BRAIN. 


YE  white-maned  waves  of  the  Western  Sea, 
That  ride  and  roll  to  the  strand, 

Ye  strong-winged  birds,  never  forced  a-lee 
By  the  gales  that  sweep  toward  land, 

Ye  are  symbols  of  death,  and  of  hope  that  saves, 
As  ye  swoop  in  your  strength  and  grace, 

As  ye  roll  to  the  land  like  the  billowed  graves 
Of  a past  and  puerile  race. 

Cry,  “ Presto,  change  ! ” and  the  lout  is  lord, 
With  his  vulgar  blood  turned  blue  ; 

Go  dub  your  knight  with  a slap  of  a sword, 

As  the  kings  in  Europe  do  ; 

Go  grade  the  lines  of  your  social  mode 
As  you  grade  the  palace  wall, — 

The  people  forever  to  bear  the  load, 

And  the  gilded  vanes  o’  er  all. 


512 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’ REILLY. 


Bat  the  human  blocks  will  not  lie  as  still 
As  the  dull  foundation  stones, 

But  will  rise,  like  a sea,  with  an  awful  will, 
And  ingulf  the  golden  thrones  ; 

For  the  days  are  gone  when  a special  race 
Took  the  place  of  the  gilded  vane  ; 

And  the  merit  that  mounts  to  the  highest  place 
Must  have  bone  and  sinew  and  brain. 

Let  the  cant  of  “ the  march  of  mind  ” be  heard, 
Of  the  time  to  come,  when  man 
Shall  lose  the  mark  of  his  brawn  and  beard 
In  the  future’s  leveling  plan  : 

’Tis  the  dream  of  a mind  effeminate, 

The  whine  for  an  easy  crown  ; 

There  is  no  meed  for  the  good  and  great 
In  the  weakling’s  leveling  down. 

A nation’s  boast  is  a nation’s  bone, 

As  well  as  its  might  of  mind  ; 

And  the  culture  of  either  of  these  alone 
Is  the  doom  of  a nation  signed. 

But  the  cant  of  the  ultra-suasion  school 
Unsinews  the  hand  and  thigh, 

And  preaches  the  creed  of  the  weak  to  rule, 
And  the  strong  to  struggle  and  die. 

Our  schools  are  spurred  to  the  fatal  race, 

As  if  health  were  the  nation’s  sin, 

Till  the  head  grows  large,  and  the  vampire  face 
Is  gorged  on  the  limbs  so  thin. 

Our  women  have  entered  the  abstract  fields, 
And  avaunt  with  the  child  and  home : 

While  the  rind  of  science  a pleasure  yields 
Shall  they  care  for  the  lives  to  come  ? 

And  they  ape  the  manners  of  manly  times 
In  their  sterile  and  worthless  life, 

Till  the  man  of  the  future  augments  his  crimes 
With  a raid  for  a Sabine  wife. 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES.  513 

Ho,  white-maned  waves  of  the  Western  Sea, 

That  ride  and  roll  to  the  strand  ! 

Ho,  strong- winged  birds,  never  blown  a-lee 
By  the  gales  that  sweep  toward  land  ! 

Ye  are  symbols  both  of  a hope  that  saves, 

As  ye  swoop  in  your  strength  and  grace, 

As  ye  roll  to  the  land  like  the  billowed  graves 
Of  a suicidal  race. 

Ye  have  hoarded  your  strength  in  equal  parts  ; 

For  the  men  of  the  future  reign 
Must  have  faithful  souls  and  kindly  hearts, 

And  bone  and  sinew  and  brain. 


THE  CITY  STREETS. 


A CITY  of  Palaces  ! Yes,  that’s  true  : a city  of  palaces 
built  for  trade ; 

Look  down  this  street — what  a splendid  view  of  the  temples 
where  fabulous  gains  are  made. 

Just  glance  at  the  wealth  of  a single  pile,  the  marble  pillars, 
the  miles  of  glass, 

The  carving  and  cornice  in  gaudy  style,  the  massive  show 
of  the  polished  brass  ; 

And  think  of  the  acres  of  inner  floors,  where  the  wealth  of 
the  world  is  spread  for  sale  ; 

Why,  the  treasures  inclosed  by  those  ponderous  doors  are 
richer  than  ever  a fairy  tale. 

Pass  on  the  next,  it  is  still  the  same,  another  Aladdin  the 
scene  repeats  ; 

The  silks  are  unrolled  and  the  jewels  flame  for  leagues  and 
leagues  of  the  city  streets  ! 

Now  turn  away  from  the  teeming  town,  and  pass  to  the 
homes  of  the  merchant  kings, 

Wide  squares  where  the  stately  porches  frown,  where  the 
flowers  are  bright  and  the  fountain  sings  ; 


514 


JOHN  BOYLE  0?  REILLY. 


Look  up  at  the  lights  in  that  brilliant  room,  with  its 
chandelier  of  a hundred  flames  ! 

See  the  carpeted  street  where  the  ladies  come  whose  hus- 
bands have  millions  or  famous  names  ; 

For  whom  are  the  jewels  and  silks,  behold : on  those 
exquisite  bosoms  and  throats  they  burn  ; 

Art  challenges  Nature  in  color  and  gold  and  the  gracious 
presence  of  every  turn. 

So  the  winters  fly  past  in  a joyous  rout,  and  the  summers 
bring  marvelous  cool  retreats  ; 

These  are  civilized  wonders  we’re  finding  out  as  we  walk 
through  the  beautiful  city  streets. 

A City  of  Palaces  ! — Hush  ! not  quite : a city  where  palaces 
are,  is  best ; 

No  need  to  speak  of  what’s  out  of  sight : let  us  take  what 
is  pleasant,  and  leave  the  rest : 

The  men  of  the  city  who  travel  and  write,  whose  fame  and 
credit  are  known  abroad, 

The  people  who  move  in  the  ranks  polite,  the  cultured 
women  whom  all  applaud. 

It  is  true,  there  are  only  ten  thousand  here,  but  the  other 
half  million  are  vulgar  clod  ; 

And  a soul  well-bred  is  eternally  dear — it  counts  so  much 
more  on  the  books  of  God. 

The  others  have  use  in  their  place,  no  doubt ; but  why 
speak  of  a class  one  never  meets  ? 

They  are  gloomy  things  to  be  talked  about,  those  common 
lives  of  the  city  streets. 

Well,  then,  if  you  will,  let  us  look  at  both  : let  us  weigh 
the  pleasure  against  the  pain, 

The  gentleman’s  smile  with  the  bar-room  oath,  the  lumi- 
nous square  with  the  tenement  lane. 

Look  round  you  now  ; ’ tis  another  sphere,  of  thin-clad 
women  and  grimy  men  ; 

There  are  over  ten  thousand  huddled  here,  where  a hundred 
would  live  of  our  upper  ten. 


515 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 

Take  care  of  that  child  : here,  look  at  her  face,  a baby  who 
carries  a baby  brother  ; 

They  are  early  helpers  in  this  poor  place,  and  the  infant 
must  often  nurse  the  mother. 


Come  up  those  stairs  where  the  little  ones  went : five  flights 
they  groped  and  climbed  in  the  dark  ; 

There  are  dozens  of  homes  on  the  steep  ascent,  and  homes 
that  are  filled  with  children — hark  ! 

Did  you  hear  that  laugh,  with  its  manly  tones,  and  the 
joyous  ring  of  the  baby  voice  % 

. ’Tis  the  father  who  gathers  his  little  ones,  the  nurse  and 
her  brother,  and  all  rejoice. 

Yes,  human  nature  is  much  the  same  when  you  come  to 
the  heart  and  count  its  beats  ; 

The  workman  is  proud  of  his  home’s  dear  name  as  the 
richest  man  on  the  city  streets. 


God  pity  them  all ! God  pity  the  worst ! for  the  worst  are 
reckless,  and  need  it  most : 

When  we  trace  the  causes  why  lives  are  curst  with  the 
criminal  taint,  let  no  man  boast : 

The  race  is  not  run  with  an  equal  chance  : the  poor  man’s 
son  carries  double  weight ; 

Who  have  not,  are  tempted ; inheritance  is  a blight  or  a 
blessing  of  man’s  estate. 

No  matter  that  poor  men  sometimes  sweep  the  prize  from 
the  sons  of  the  millionaire  : 

What  is  good  to  win  must  be  good  to  keep,  else  the  virtue 
dies  on  the  topmost  stair  ; 


When  the  winners  can  keep  their  golden  prize,  still  darker 
the  day  of  the  laboring  poor  : 

The  strong  and  the  selfish  are  sure  to  rise,  while  the  sim- 
ple and  generous  die  obscure. 

And  these  are  the  virtues  and  social  gifts  by  which  Progress 
and  Property  rank  over  Man  ! 

Look  there,  O woe  ! where  a lost  soul  drifts  on  the  stream 
where  such  virtues  overran  : 


§16  JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 

Stand  close — let  her  pass  ! from  a tenement  room  and  a 
reeking  workshop  graduate  : 

If  a man  were  to  break  the  iron  loom  or  the  press  she 
tended,  he  knows  his  fate  ; 

But  her  life  may  be  broken,  she  stands  alone,  her  poverty 
stings,  and  her  guideless  feet, 

Not  long  since  kissed  as  a father’s  own,  are  dragged  in  the 
mire  of  the  pitiless  street. 

Come  back  to  the  light,  for  my  brain  goes  wrong  when  I 
see  the  sorrows  that  can’t  be  cured. 

If  this  is  all  righteous,  then  why  prolong  the  pain  for  a 
thing  that  must  be  endured  ? 

We  can  never  have  palaces  built  without  slaves,  nor  luxu- 
ries served  without  ill -paid  toil ; 

Society  flourishes  only  on  graves,  the  moral  graves  in  the 
lowly  soil. 

The  earth  was  not  made  for  its  people  : that  cry  has  been 
hounded  down  as  a social  crime  ; 

The  meaning  of  life  is  to  barter  and  buy  ; and  the  strongest 
and  shrewdest  are  masters  of  time. 

God  made  the  million  to  serve  the  few,  and  their  questions 
of  right  are  vain  conceits  ; 

To  have  one  sweet  home  that  is  safe  and  true,  ten  garrets 
must  reek  in  the  darkened  streets. 

’Tis  Civilization,  so  they  say,  and  it  cannot  be  changed  for 
the  weakness  of  men. 

Take  care  ! take  care  ! ’tis  a desperate  way  to  goad  the 
wolf  to  the  end  of  his  den. 

Take  heed  of  your  Civilization,  ye,  on  your  pyramids  built 
of  quivering  hearts  ; 

There  are  stages,  like  Paris  in  ’93,  where  the  commonest 
men  play  most  terrible  parts. 

Your  statutes  may  crush  but  they  cannot  kill  the  patient 
sense  of  a natural  right ; 

It  may  slowly  move,  but  the  People’s  will,  like  the  ocean 
o’er  Holland,  is  always  in  sight. 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES.  517 

“ It  is  not  our  fault!  ” say  the  rich  ones.  No  ; ’tis  the 
fault  of  a system  old  and  strong  ; 

But  men  are  the  makers  of  systems  : so,  the  cure  will  come 
if  we  own  the  wrong. 

It  will  come  in  peace  if  the  man-right  lead  ; it  will  sweep 
in  storm  if  it  be  denied  : 

The  law  to  bring  justice  is  always  decreed  ; and  on  every 
hand  are  the  warnings  cried. 

Take  heed  of  your  Progress  ! Its  feet  have  trod  on  the 
souls  it  slew  with  its  own  pollutions  ; 

Submission  is  good  ; but  the  order  of  God  may  flame  the 
torch  of  the  revolutions  ! 

Beware  with  your  Classes  ! Men  are  men,  and  a cry  in  the 
night  is  a fearful  teacher  ; 

When  it  reaches  the  hearts  of  the  masses,  then  they  need 
but  a sword  for  a judge  and  preacher. 

Take  heed,  for  your  Juggernaut  pushes  hard  : God  holds 
the  doom  that  its  day  completes  ; 

It  will  dawn  like  a tire  when  the  track  is  barred  by  a barri- 
cade in  the  city  streets. 


THE  INFINITE. 


The  Infinite  always  is  silent : 

It  is  only  the  Finite  speaks. 

Our  words  are  the  idle  wave-caps 
On  the  deep  that  never  breaks. 

We  may  question  with  wand  of  science, 
Explain,  decide,  and  discuss  ; 

But  only  in  meditation 
The  Mystery  speaks  to  us. 


518 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


FROM  THE  EARTH,  A CRY. 


“ The  Years  of  Our  Lord  ” 1870  to  1880. — The  Rulers  of  Prussia  and 
France  make  War.— The  Paris  Commune. — War  for  Rome  between 
the  Pope  and  the  King  of  Italy.— War  between  Russia  and  Turkey. — 
England  devastates  Abyssinia,  Ashantee,  and  Zululand. — One  English 
Viceroy  in  India  murdered.  Another  shot  at. — Socialists  attempt  to 
kill  the  Emperor  of  Germany. — Internationalists  fire  at  the  King  of 
Italy. — Nihilists  thrice  attempt  to  destroy  the  Czar. — The  Mines  of 
Siberia  filled  with  Political  Prisoners. — The  Farmers  of  Ireland  Rebel  in 
Despair  against  Rack-rents. — The  Workmen  of  England  Emigrating 
from  Starvation. — The  Land  of  England,  Scotland,  and  Ireland  held  by 
Less  than  a Quarter  of  a Million  of  Men. — The  Pittsburg  Riots. — The 
American  Strikes. — The  End  of  the  Decade. 


CAN  the  earth  have  a voice  ? Can  the  clods  have  speech, 
To  murmur  and  rail  at  the  demigods  ? 

Trample  them  ! Grind  their  vulgar  faces  in  the  clay  ! 

The  earth  was  made  for  lords  and  the  makers  of  law  ; 

For  the  conquerors  and  the  social  priest ; 

For  traders  who  feed  on  and  foster  the  complex  life  ; 

For  the  shrewd  and  the  selfish  who  plan  and  keep  ; 

For  the  heirs  who  squander  the  hoard  that  bears 
The  face  of  the  king,  and  the  blood  of  the  serf, 

And  the  curse  of  the  darkened  souls ! 

O Christ  ! and  O Christ ! In  thy  name  the  law ! 

In  thy  mouth  the  mandate  ! In  thy  loving  hand  the  whip  ! 
They  have  taken  thee  down  from  thy  cross  and  sent  thee  to 
scourge  the  people  ; 

They  have  shod  thy  feet  with  spikes  and  jointed  thy  dead 
knees  with  iron, 

And  pushed  thee,  hiding  behind,  to  trample  the  poor  dumb 
faces  ! 

The  spheres  make  music  in  space.  They  swing 
Like  fiery  cherubim  on  their  paths,  circling  their  suns, 
Mysterious,  weaving  the  irrevealable, 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


519 


Full  of  the  peace  of  unity — sphere  and  its  life  at  one — 
Humming  their  lives  of  love  through  the  limitless  waste  of 
creation. 

God  ! thou  hast  made  man  a test  of  Thyself  ! 

Thou  hast  set  in  him  a heart  that  bleeds  at  the  cry  of  the 
helpless  : 

Through  Thine  infinite  seas  one  world  rolls  silent, 

Moaning  at  times  with  quivers  and  fissures  of  blood  ; 
Divided,  unhappy,  accursed  ; the  lower  life  good, 

But  the  higher  life  wasted  and  split,  like  grain  with  a 
cankered  root. 

Is  there  health  in  thy  gift  of  life,  Almighty  % 

Is  there  grief  or  compassion  anywhere  for  the  poor  \ 

If  these  be,  there  is  guerdon  for  those  who  hate  the 
wrong 

And  leap  naked  on  the  spears,  that  blood  may  cry 
For  truth  to  come,  and  pity,  and  Thy  peace. 

The  human  sea  is  frozen  like  a swamp  ; and  the  kings 
And  the  heirs  and  the  owners  ride  on  the  ice  and  laugh. 
Their  war-forces,  orders,  and  laws  are  the  crusted  field  of  a 
crater, 

And  they  stamp  on  the  fearful  rind,  deriding  its  flesh-like 
shudder. 

Lightning ! the  air  is  split,  the  crater  bursts,  and  the 
breathing 

Of  those  below  is  the  fume  and  fire  of  hatred. 

The  thrones  are  stayed  with  the  courage  of  shotted  guns. 
The  warning  dies. 

But  queens  are  dragged  to  the  block,  and  the  knife  of  the 
guillotine  sinks 

In  the  garbage  of  pampered  flesh  that  gluts  its  bed  and  its 
hinges. 

Silence  again,  and  sunshine.  The  gaping  lips  are  closed 
on  the  crater. 


520  JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 

The  dead  are  below,  and  the  landless,  and  those  who  live 
to  labor 

And  grind  forever  in  gloom  that  the  privileged  few  may 
live. 

But  the  silence  is  sullen,  not  restful.  It  heaves  like  a sea, 
and  frets, 

And  beats  at  the  roof  till  it  finds  another  vent  for  its  fury. 

Again  the  valve  is  burst  and  the  pitch-cloud  rushes, — the 
old  seam  rends  anew — 

Where  the  kings  were  killed  before,  their  names  are  hewed 
from  the  granite — 

Paris,  mad  hope  of  the  slave-shops,  flames  to  the  petroleuse  ! 

Tiger  that  tasted  blood — Paris  that  tasted  freedom  ! 

Never,  while  steel  is  cheap  and  sharp,  shall  thy  kinglings 
sleep  without  dreaming — 

Never,  while  souls  have  flame,  shall  their  palaces  crush  the 
hovels. 

Insects  and  vermin,  ye,  the  starving  and  dangerous  myriads, 

List  to  the  murmur  that  grows  and  growls  ! Come  from 
your  mines  and  mills, 

Pale-faced  girls  and  women  with  ragged  and  hard-eyed 
children, 

Pour  from  your  dens  of  toil  and  filth,  out  to  the  air  of 
heaven — 

Breathe  it  deep,  and  hearken ! A Cry  from  the  cloud  or 
beyond  it, 

A Cry  to  the  toilers  to  rise,  to  be  high  as  the  highest  that 
rules  them, 

To  own  the  earth  in  their  lifetime  and  hand  it  down  to 
their  children  ! 

Emperors,  stand  to  the  bar ! Chancellors,  halt  at  the 
barracks ! 

Landlords  and  Lawlords  and  Tradelords,  the  specters  you 
conjured  have  risen — 


521 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 

Communists,  Socialists,  Nihilists,  Rent-rebels,  Strikers, 
behold  ! 

They  are  fruit  of  the  seed  you  have  sown — God  has  pros- 
pered your  planting.  They  come 

From  the  earth,  like  the  army  of  death.  You  have  sowed 
the  teeth  of  the  dragon  ! 

Hark  to  the  bay  of  the  leader  ! You  shall  hear  the  roar  of 
the  pack 

As  sure  as  the  stream  goes  seaward.  The  crust  on  the 
crater  beneath  you 

Shall  crack  and  crumble  and  sink,  with  your  laws  and  rules 

That  breed  the  million  to  toil  for  the  luxury  of  the  ten — 

That  grind  the  rent  from  the  .tiller’s  blood  for  drones  to 
spend — 

That  hold  the  teeming  planet  as  a garden  plot  for  a 
thousand — 

That  draw  the  crowds  to  the  cities  from  the  healthful  fields 
and  woods — 

That  copulate  with  greed  and  beget  disease  and  crime — 

That  join  these  two  and  their  offspring,  till  the  world  is 
filled  with  fear, 

And  falsehood  wins  from  truth,  and  the  vile  and  cunning 
succeed, 

And  manhood  and  love  are  dwarfed,  and  virtue  and  friend- 
ship sick, 

And  the  law  of  Christ  is  a cloak  for  the  corpse  that  stands 
for  Justice ! 

—As  sure  as  the  Spirit  of  God  is  Truth,  this  Truth  shall 
reign, 

And  the  trees  and  lowly  brutes  shall  cease  to  be  higher 
than  men. 

God  purifies  slowly  by  peace,  but  urgently  by  fire. 


522 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


PROMETHEUS— CHRIST. 


LASHED  to  the  planet,  glaring  at  the  sky, 

An  eagle  at  his  heart — the  Pagan  Christ ! 

Why  is  it,  Mystery  \ O,  dumb  Darkness,  why 
Have  always  men,  with  loving  hearts  themselves, 
Made  devils  of  their  gods  ? 


The  whirling  globe 

Bears  round  man’s  sweating  agony  of  blood, 
That  Might  may  gloat  above  impotent  Pain  ! 

Man’s  soul  is  dual — he  is  half  a fiend, 

And  from  himself  he  typifies  Almighty. 

O,  poison-doubt,  the  answer  holds  no  peace  : 
Man  did  not  make  himself  a fiend,  but  God. 

Between  them,  what  ? Prometheus  stares 
Through  ether  to  the  lurid  eyes  of  Jove — 
Between  them,  Darkness  ! 


But  the  gods  are  dead — 
Ay,  Zeus  is  dead,  and  all  the  gods  but  Doubt, 

And  Doubt  is  brother  devil  to  Despair  ! 

What,  then,  for  us  ? Better  Prometheus’  fate, 

Who  dared  the  gods,  than  insect  unbelief — 

Better  Doubt’s  fitful  flame  than  abject  nothingness  ! 

O,  world  around  us,  glory  of  the  spheres  ! 

God  speaks  in  ordered  harmony — behold  ! 

Between  us  and  the  Darkness,  clad  in  light, — 
Between  us  and  the  curtain  of  the  Vast, — two  Forms, 
And  each  is  crowned  eternally — and  One 
Is  crowned  with  flowers  and  tender  leaves  and  grass, 
And  smiles  benignly  ; and  the  other  One, 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


523 


With  sadly  pitying  eyes,  is  crowned  with  thorns  : 
O Nature,  and  O Christ,  for  men  to  love 
And  seek  and  live  by — Thine  the  dual  reign — 

The  health  and  hope  and  happiness  of  men  ! 

Behold  our  faith  and  fruit ! — 


What  demon  laughs  % 

Behold  our  books,  our  schools,  our  states, 

Where  Christ  and  Nature  are  the  daily  word  ; 

Behold  our  dealings  between  man  and  man, 

Our  laws  for  home,  our  treaties. for  abroad  ; 

Behold  our  honor,  honesty,  and  freedom, 

And,  last,  our  brotherhood  ! For  we  are  born 
In  Christian  times  and  ruled  by  Christian  rules  ! 

Bah  ! God  is  mild,  or  he  would  strike  the  world 
As  men  should  smite  a liar  on  the  mouth. 

Shame  on  the  falsehood  ! Let  us  tell  the  truth — 

Nor  Christ  nor  Nature  rules,  but  Greed  and  Creed 
And  Caste  and  Cant  and  Craft  and  Ignorance. 

Down  to  the  dust  with  every  decent  face, 

And  whisper  there  the  lies  we  daily  live. 

O,  God  forgive  us  ! Nature  never  can  ; 

For  one  is  merciful,  the  other  just. 

Let  us  confess  : by  Nations  first — our  lines 
Are  writ  in  blood  and  rapine  and  revenge  ; 

Conquest  and  pride  have  motive  been  and  law — 
Christ  walks  with  us  to  hourly  crucifixion  ! 

As  Men  ? *Would  God  the  better  tale  were  here  : 
Atom  as  whole,  corruption,  shrewdness,  self. 

Freedom  f A juggle — hundreds  slave  for  one, — 

That  one  is  free,  and  boasts,  and  lo  ! the  shame, 

The  hundreds  at  the  wheel  go  boasting  too. 


524 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


Justice  f The  selfish  only  can  succeed  ; 

Success  means  power — did  Christ  mean  it  so  ? — 

And  power  must  be  guarded  by  the  law, 

And  preachers  preach  that  law  must  be  obeyed, 

Ay,  even  when  Right  is  ironed  in  the  dock, 

And  Rapine  sits  in  ermine  on  the  bench  ! 

Mercy  f Behold  it  in  the  reeking  slums 
That  grow  like  cancers  from  the  palace  wall ; 

Go  hear  it  from  the  conquered — how  their  blood 
Is  weighed  in  drops,  and  purchased,  blood  for  gold  ; 
Go  ask  the  toiling  tenant  why  he  paid 
The  landlord’s  rent  and  let  his  children  starve  ; 

Go  find  the  thief,  whose  father  was  a thief, 

And  ask  what  Christian  leech  has  cured  his  sin  ? 
Honesty  f Our  law  of  life  is  Gain — 

We  must  get  gold  or  be  accounted  fools  ; 

The  lovable,  the  generous,  must  be  crushed 
And  substituted  by  the  hard  and  shrewd. 

What  is  it,  Christ,  this  thing  called  Christian  life, 
Where  Christ  is  not,  where  ninety  slave  for  ten, 

And  never  own  a flower  save  when  they  steal  it, 

And  never  hear  a bird  save  when  they  cage  it  ? 

Is  this  the  freedom  of  Thy  truth  ? Ah,  woe 
For  those  who  see  a higher,  nobler  law 
Than  his,  the  Crucified,  if  this  be  so  ! 

O,  man’s  blind  hope — Prometheus,  thine  the  gift — 
That  bids  him  live  when  reason  bids  him  die  ! 

We  cling  to  this,  as  sailors  to  a spar — 

We  see  that  this  is  Truth  : that  men  are  one, 

Nor  king  nor  slave  among  them  save  by  law  ; 

We  see  that  law  is  crime,  save  God’s  sweet  code 
That  laps  the  world  in  freedom  : trees  and  men 
And  every  life  around  us,  days  and  seasons, 

All  for  their  natural  order  on  the  planet, 

To  live  their  lives,  an  hour,  a hundred  years, 

Equal,  content,  and  free — nor  curse  their  souls 
With  trade's  malign  unrest,  with  books  that  breed 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  A1STD  SPEECHES. 


525 


Disparity,  contempt  for  those  who  cannot  read  ; 
With  cities  full  of  toil  and  sin  and  sorrow, 
Climbing  the  devil-builded  hill  called  Progress  ! 
Prometheus,  we  reject  thy  gifts  for  Christ’s  ! 
Selfish  and  hard  wTere  thine  ; but  His  are  sweet — 

“ Sell  what  thou  hast  and  give  it  to  the  poor ! ” 
Him  we  must  follow  to  the  great  Commune, 
Reading  his  book  of  Nature,  growing  wise 
As  planet-men,  who  own  the  earth,  and  pass  ; 

Him  we  must  follow  till  foul  Cant  and  Caste 
Die  like  disease,  and  Mankind,  freed  at  last, 
Tramples  the  complex  life  and  laws  and  limits 
That  stand  between  all  living  things  and  Freedom  ! 


UNSPOKEN  WORDS. 


THE  kindly  words  that  rise  within  the  heart, 
And  thrill  it  with  their  sympathetic  tone, 

But  die  ere  spoken,  fail  to  play  their  part, 

And  claim  a merit  that  is  not  their  own. 

The  kindly  word  unspoken  is  a sin, — 

A sin  that  wraps  itself  in  purest  guise, 

And  tells  the  heart  that,  doubting,  looks  within, 
That  not  in  speech,  but  thought,  the  virtue  lies. 

But  ’tis  not  so  : another  heart  may  thirst 
For  that  kind  word,  as  Hagar  in  the  wild — 

Poor  banished  Hagar  ! — prayed  a well  might  burst 
From  out  the  sand  to  save  her  parching  child. 
And  loving  eyes  that  cannot  see  the  mind 
Will  watch  the  expected  movement  of  the  lip  : 
Ah  ! can  ye  let  its  cutting  silence  wind 
Around  that  heart,  and  scathe  it  like  a whip  ? 

Unspoken  words,  like  treasures  in  the  mine, 

Are  valueless  until  we  give  then?  birth  : 


526 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’UEILLY. 


Like  unfound  gold  their  hidden  beauties  shine, 
Which  God  has  made  to  bless  and  gild  the  earth. 

How  sad  ’twould  be  to  see  a master’s  hand 
Strike  glorious  notes  upon  a voiceless  lute  ! 

But  oh  ! what  pain  when,  at  God’s  own  command, 

A heart-string  thrills  with  kindness,  but  is  mute  ! 

Then  hide  it  not,  the  music  of  the  soul, 

Dear  sympathy,  expressed  with  kindly  voice, 

But  let  it  like  a shining  river  roll 
To  deserts  dry, — to  hearts  that  would  rejoice. 

. Oh ! let  the  symphony  of  kindly  words 

Sound  for  the  poor,  the  friendless,  and  the  weak  ; 

And  he  will  bless  you, — he  who  struck  these  chords 
Will  strike  another  when  in  turn  you  seek. 


STAB-GAZING. 


LET  be  what  is  : why  should  we  strive  and  wrestle 
With  awkward  skill  against  a subtle  doubt  ? 

Or  pin  a mystery  ’neatli  our  puny  pestle, 

And  vainly  try  to  bray  its  secret  out  ? 

What  boots  it  me  to  gaze  at  other  planets, 

And  speculate  on  sensate  beings  there  ? 

It  comforts  not  that,  since  the  moon  began  its 
Well-ordered  course,  it  knew  no  breath  of  air. 

There  may  be  men  and  women  up  in  Yenus, 

Where  science  finds  both  summer-green  and  snow  ; 
But  are  we  happier  asking,  ‘ ‘ Have  they  seen  us  ? 
And,  like  us  earth-men,  do  they  yearn  to  know  ? ” 

On  greater  globes  than  ours  men  may  be  greater, 

For  all  things  here  in  fair  proportion  run  ; 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


527 


But  will  it  make  our  poor  cup  any  sweeter 
To  think  a nobler  Shakespeare  thrills  the  snn  ? 

Or,  that  our  sun  is  but  itself  a minor, 

Like  this  dark  earth — a tenth-rate  satellite, 

That  swings  submissive  round  an  orb  diviner, 

Whose  day  is  lightning,  with  our  day  for  night  ? 

Or,  past  all  suns,  to  find  the  awful  center 

Round  which  they  meanly  wind  a servile  road  ; 

Ah,  will  it  raise  us  or  degrade,  to  enter 
Where  that  world’s  Shakespeare  towers  almost  to  God? 

No,  no  ; far  better,  “ lords  of  all  creation  ” 

To  strut  our  ant-hill,  and  to  take  our  ease  ; 

To  look  aloft  and  say,  “ That  constellation 
Was  lighted  there  our  regal  sight  to  please  ! ” 

We  owe  no  thanks  to  so-called  men  of  science, 

Who  demonstrate  that  earth, -not  sun,  goes  round ; 

’Twere  better  think  the  sun  a mere  appliance 
To  light  man’s  villages  and  heat  his  ground. 

There  seems  no  good  in  asking  or  in  humbling ; 

The  mind  incurious  has  the  most  of  rest ; 

If  we  can  live  and  laugh  and  pray,  not  grumbling, 

’Tis  all  we  can  do  here — and  ’tis  the  best. 

The  throbbing  brain  will  burst  its  tender  raiment 
With  futile  force,  to  see  by  finite  light 

How  man’s  brief  earning  and  eternal  payment 
Are  weighed  as  equal  in  th’  Infinite  sight. 

’Tis  all  in  vain  to  struggle  with  abstraction — 

The  milky  way  that  tempts  our  mental  glass  ; 

The  study  for  mankind  is  earth-born  action  ; 

The  highest  wisdom,  let  the  wondering  pass. 


528 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


The  Lord  knows  best : He  gave  ns  thirst  for  learning ; 

And  deepest  knowledge  of  His  work  betrays 
No  thirst  left  waterless.  Shall  our  soul-yearning, 
Apart  from  all  things,  be  a quenchless  blaze  ? 


A DISAPPOINTMENT. 


HER  hair  was  a waving  bronze,  and  her  eyes 

Deep  wells  that  might  cover  a brooding  soul ; 
And  who,  till  he  weighed  it,  could  ever  surmise 
That  her  heart  was  a cinder  instead  of  a coal ! 


THE  OLD  SCHOOL  CLOCK. 


OLD  memories  rush  o’er  my  mind  just  now 
Of  faces  and  friends  of  the  past ; 

Of  that  happy  time  when  life’s  dream  was  all  bright, 

E’er  the  clear  sky  of  youth  was  o’ercast. 

Very  dear  are  those  mem’ries, — they’ve  clung  round  my 
heart, 

And  bravely  withstood  Time’s  rude  shock  ; 

But  not  one  is  more  hallowed  or  dear  to  me  now 
Than  the  face  of  the  old  school  clock. 

’Twas  a quaint  old  clock  with  a quaint  old  face, 

And  great  iron  weights  and  chain  ; 

It  stopped  when  it  liked,  and  before  it  struck 
It  creaked  as  if  ’twere  in  pain. 

It  had  seen  many  years,  and  it  seemed  to  say, 

“I’m  one  of  the  real  old  stock,’' 

To  the  youthful  fry,  who  with  reverence  looked 
On  the  face  of  the  old  school  clock. 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


529 


How  many  a time  have  I labored  to  sketch 
That  yellow  and  time-honored  face, 

With  its  basket  of  flowers,  its  figures  and  hands, 

And  the  weights  and  the  chains  in  their  place  ! 

How  oft  have  I gazed  with  admiring  eye, 

As  I sat  on  the  wooden  block, 

And  pondered  and  guessed  at  the  wonderful  things 
That  were  inside  that  old  school  clock ! 

What  a terrible  frown  did  the  old  clock  wear 
To  the  truant,  who  timidly  cast 
An  anxious  eye  on  those  merciless  hands, 

That  for  him  had  been  moving  too  fast ! 

But  its  frown  soon  changed  ; for  it  loved  to  smile 
On  the  thoughtless,  noisy  flock, 

And  it  creaked  and  whirred  and  struck  with  glee, — 

Did  that  genial,  good-humored  old  clock. 

Well,  years  had  passed,  and  my  mind  was  filled 
With  the  world,  its  cares  and  ways, 

When  again  I stood  in  that  little  school 
Where  I passed  my  boyhood’s  days. 

My  old  friend  was  gone  ! and  there  hung  a thing 
That  my  sorrow  seemed  to  mock, 

As  I gazed  with  a tear  and  a softened  heart 
At  a new-fashioned  Yankee  clock. 

’Twas  a gaudy  thing  with  bright-painted  sides, 

And  it  looked  with  insolent  stare 
On  the  desks  and  the  seats  and  on  everything  old 
And  I thought  of  the  friendly  air 
Of  the  face  that  I missed,  with  its  weights  and  chains, — 
All  gone  to  the  auctioneer’ s block  : 

’Tis  a thing  of  the  past, — never  more  shall  I see 
But  in  mem’ry  that  old  school  clock. 

’Tis  the  way  of  the  world  : old  friends  pass  away, 

And  fresh  faces  arise  in  their  stead  ; 


530 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


But  still  ’mid  the  din  and  the  bustle  of  life 
We  cherish  fond  thoughts  of  the  dead. 

Yes,  dearly  those  memories  cling  round  my  heart, 
And  bravely  withstand  Time’s  rude  shock  ; 

But  not  one  is  more  dear  or  more  hallowed  to  me 
Than  the  face  of  that  old  school  clock. 


WITHERED  SNOWDROPS. 


THEY  came  in  the  early  spring-days, 

With  the  first  refreshing  showers 
And  I watched  the  growing  beauty 
Of  the  little  drooping  flowers. 

They  had  no  bright  hues  to  charm  me, 

No  gay  painting  to  allure  ; 

But  they  made  me  think  of  angels, 

They  were  all  so  white  and  pure. 

In  the  early  morns  I saw  them, 

Dew-drops  clinging  to  each  bell, 

And  the  first  glad  sunbeam  hasting 
Just  to  kiss  them  ere  they  fell. 

Daily  grew  their  spotless  beauty  ; 

But  I feared  when  chill  winds  blew 
They  were  all  too  frail  and  tender, — 

And  alas  ! my  fears  were  true. 

One  glad  morn  I went  to  see  them 
While  the  bright  drops  gemmed  their  snow, 
And  one  angel  flower  was  withered, 

Its  fair  petals  drooping  low. 

Its  white  sister’s  tears  fell  on  it, 

And  the  sunbeam  sadly  shone  ; 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


531 


For  its  innocence  was  withered, 

And  its  purity  was  gone. 

Still  I left  it  there  : I could  not 
Tear  it  rudely  from  its  place  ; 

It  might  rise  again,  and  summer 
Might  restore  its  vanished  grace. 

But  my  hopes  grew  weaker,  weaker, 

And  my  heart  with  grief  was  pained 

When  I knew  it  must  be  severed 
From  the  innocence  it  stained. 

I must  take  it  from  the  pure  ones  : 
Henceforth  they  must  live  apart. 

But  I could  not  cut  my  flow’ ret — 

My  lost  angel — from  my  heart. 

Oft  I think  of  that  dead  snowdrop, 

Think  with  sorrow,  when  I meet, 

Day  by  day,  the  poor  lost  flowers, — 
Sullied  snowdrops  of  the  street. 

They  were  pure  once,  loved  and  loving, 
And  there  still  lives  good  within. 

Ah  ! speak  gently  to  them  : harsh  words 
Will  not  lead  them  from  their  sin. 

They  are  not  like  withered  flowers 
That  can  never  bloom  again  : 

They  can  rise,  bright  angel  snowdrops, 
Purified  from  every  stain. 


A SAVAGE. 


DIXON,  a Choctaw,  twenty  years  of  age, 

Had  killed  a miner  in  a Leadville  brawl ; 

Tried  and  condemned,  the  rough-beards  curb  their  rage, 
And  watch  him  stride  in  freedom  from  the  hall. 


532 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


“ Return  on  Friday , to  be  shot  to  death  ! ” 

So  ran  the  sentence — it  was  Monday  night. 

The  dead  man’s  comrades  drew  a well-pleased  breath ; 
Then  all  night  long  the  gambling  dens  were  bright. 

The  days  sped  slowly  ; but  the  Friday  came, 

And  flocked  the  miners  to  the  shooting-ground  ; 
They  chose  six  riflemen  of  deadly  aim, 

And  with  low  voices  sat  and  lounged  around. 

“He  will  not  come.”  “ He’s  not  a fool.”  “The  men 
Who  set  the  savage  free  must  face  the  blame.” 

A Choctaw  brave  smiled  bitterly,  and  then 

Smiled  proudly,  with  raised  head,  as  Dixon  came. 

Silent  and  stern — a woman  at  his  heels  ; 

He  motions  to  the  brave,  who  stays  her  tread. 

Next  minute — flame  the  guns  : the  woman  reels 
And  drops  without  a moan — Dixon  is  dead. 


RULES  OF  THE  ROAD. 


'TTT’HAT  man  would  be  wise,  let  him  drink  of  the  river 
VV  That  bears  on  its  bosom  the  record  of  time  : 

A message  to  him  every  wave  can  deliver 

To  teach  him  to  creep  till  he  knows  how  to  climb. 

Who  heeds  not  experience,  trust  him  not ; tell  him 
The  scope  of  one  mind  can  but  trifles  achieve  : 

The  weakest  who  draws  from  the  mine  will  excel  him 
The  wealth  of  mankind  is  the  wisdom  they  leave. 


For  peace  do  not  hope— to  be  just  you  must  break  it ; 

Still  work  for  the  minute  and  not  for  the  year  ; 
When  honor  comes  to  you,  be  ready  to  take  it ; 

But  reach  not  to  seize  it  before  it  is  near. 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES.  583 

Be  silent  and  safe — silence  never  betrays  you  ; 

Be  true  to  your  word  and  your  work  and  your  friend  ; 
Put  least  trust  in  him  who  is  foremost  to  praise  you, 

Nor  judge  of  a road  till  it  draw  to  the  end. 

Stand  erect  in  the  vale,  nor  exult  on  the  mountain  ; 

Take  gifts  with  a sigh — most  men  give  to  be  paid  ; 

“ I had  ” is  a heartache,  “ I have  ” is  a fountain, — 

You’re  worth  what  you  saved,  not  the  million  you  made. 
Trust  toil  not  intent,  or  your  plans  will  miscarry  ; 

Your  wife  keep  a sweetheart,  instead  of  a tease  ; 

Buie  children  by  reason,  not  rod  ; and,  mind,  marry 
Your  girl  when  you  can — and  your  boy  when  you  please. 

Steer  straight  as  the  wind  will  allow  ; but  be  ready 
To  veer  just  a point  to  let  travelers  pass  : 

Each  sees  his  own  star — a stiff  course  is  too  steady 
When  this  one  to  Meeting  goes,  that  one  to  Mass. 

Our  stream’s  not  so  wide  but  two  arches  may  span  it — 
Good  neighbor  and  citizen  ; these  for  a code, 

And  this  truth  in  sight, — every  man  on  the  planet 
Has  just  as  much  right  as  yourself  to  the  road. 


LOVING  IS  DREAMING. 


LIFE  is  a certainty, 

Death  is  a doubt  ; 

Men  may  be  dead 
While  they’re  walking  about. 
Love  is  as  needful 
To  being  as  breath  ; 

Loving  is  dreaming, 

And  waking  is  death. 


534 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


AMERICA. 


Read  before  the  Army  of  the  Potomac,  in  Detroit,  1881. 


NOR  War  nor  Peace,  forever,  old  and  young, 

But  Strength  my  theme,  whose  song  is  yet  unsung, 
The  People’s  Strength,  the  deep  alluring  dream 
Of  truths  that  seethe  below  the  truths  that  seem. 

The  buried  ruins  of  dead  empires  seek, 

Of  Indian,  Syrian,  Persian,  Roman,  Greek  : 

From  shattered  capital  and  frieze  upraise 
The  stately  structures  of  their  golden  days : 

Their  laws  occult,  their  priests  and  prophets  ask, 

Their  altars  search,  their  oracles  unmask, 

Their  parable  from  birth  to  burial  see, 

The  acorn  germ,  the  growth,  the  dense-leafed  tree, 

A world  of  riant  life  ; the  sudden  day 
When  like  a new  strange  glory,  shone  decay, 

A golden  glow  amid  the  green  ; the  change 
From  branch’ to  branch  at  life’s  receding  range, 

Till  nothing  stands  of  towering  strength  and  pride 
Save  naked  trunk  and  arms  whose  veins  are  dried  ; 

And  these,  too,  crumble  till  no  signs  remain 
To  mark  its  place  upon  the  wind-swTept  plain. 

Why  died  the  empires  ? Like  the  forest  trees 
Did  Nature  doom  them  % or  did  slow  disease 
Assail  their  roots  and  poison  all  their  springs  ? 

The  old-time  story  answers  : nobles?  kings, 

Have  made  and  been  the  State,  their  names  alone 
Its  history  holds  ; its  wealth,  its  wars,  their  own. 

Their  wanton  will  could  raise,  enrich,  condemn  ; 

The  toiling  millions  lived  and  died  for  them. 

Their  fortunes  rose  in  conquest  fell,  in  guilt ; 

The  people  never  owned  them,  never  built. 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


535 


Those  olden  times  ! how  many  words  are  spent 
In  weak  regret  and  shallow  argument 
To  prove  them  wiser,  happier  than  our  own  ! 

The  oldest  moment  that  the  world  has  known 
Is  passing  now.  Those  vaunted  times  were  young  ; 
Their  wisdom  from  unlettered  peasants  sprung  ; 

Their  laws  from  nobles  arrogant  and  rude  ; 

Their  justice  force,  their  whole  achievement  crude. 

With  men  the  old  are  wise  : why  change  the  rule 
When  nations  speak,  and  send  the  old  to  school  % 
Respect  the  past  for  all  the  good  it  knew  : 

Give  noble  lives  and  struggling  truths  their  due  ; 

But  ask  what  freedom  knew  the  common  men 
Who  served  and  bled  and  won  the  victories  then  ? 
The  leaders  are  immortal,  but  the  hordes 
They  led  to  death  were  simply  human  swords, 
Unknowing  what  they  fought  for,  why  they  fell. 

What  change  has  come  % Imperial  Europe  tell ! 
Death’s  warders  cry  from  twenty  centuries’  peaks  : 
Platsea’s  field  the  word  to  Plevna  speaks ; 

The  martial  draft  still  wastes  the  peasants’  farms — 

A dozen  kings, — five  million  men  in  arms  • 

The  earth  mapped  out  estate-like,  hedged  with  steel ; 
In  neighboring  schools  the  children  bred  to  feel 
Unnatural  hate,  disjoined  in  speech  and  creed  ; 

The  forges  roaring  for  the  armies’  need ; 

The  cities  builded  by  the  people  lined 

With  scowling  forts  and  roadways  undermined  ; 

At  every  bastioned  frontier,  every  State, 

Suspicion,  sworded,  standing  by  the  gate  ! 

But  turn  our  eyes  from  these  oppressive  lands  : 
Behold  ! one  country  all  defenseless  stands, 

One  nation-continent,  from  East  to  West, 

With  riches  heaped  upon  her  bounteous  breast ; 


536 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


Her  mines,  her  marts,  her  skill  of  hand  and  brain, 

That  bring  Aladdin’s  dreams  to  light  again  ! 

Where  sleep  the  conquerors  ? Here  is  chance  for  spoil  i 
Such  unwatched  fields,  such  endless,  priceless  toil ! 

Yain  dream  of  olden  time  ! The  robber  strength 
That  swept  its  will  is  overmatched  at  length. 

Here,  not  with  swords  but  smiles  the  people  greet 
The  foreign  spy  in  harbor,  granary,  street ; 

Here  towns  unguarded  lie,  for  here  alone 
Nor  caste,  nor  king,  nor  jDrivilege  is  known. 

For  home  our  farmer  plows,  our  miner  delves, 

A land  of  toilers,  toiling  for  themselves  ; 

A land  of  cities,  which  no  fortress  shields, 

Whose  open  streets  reach  out  to  fertile  fields  ; 

Whose  roads  are  shaken  by  no  armies’  tread  ; 

Whose  only  camps  are  cities  of  the  dead  ! 

Go  stand  at  Arlington  the  graves  among  : 

No  ramparts,  cannons  there,  no  banners  hung, 

No  threat  above  the  Capitol,  no  blare 
To  warn  the  senators  the  guns  are  there. 

But  never  yet  was  city  fortified 

Like  that  sad  height  above  Potomac’s  tide  ; 

There  never  yet  was  eloquence  in  speech 
Like  those  ten  thousand  stones,  a name  on  each  ; 

No  guards  e’er  pressed  such  claims  on  court  or  king 
As  these  Praetorians  to  our  Senate  bring  ; 

The  Army  of  Potomac  never  lay 
So  full  of  strength  as  in  its  camp  to-day ! 

On  fatal  Chaeronea’s  field  the  Greeks 
A lion  raised — a sombre  tomb  that  speaks 
No  word,  no  name, — an  emblem  of  the  pride 
Of  those  that  ruled  the  insect  host  that  died. 

But  by  her  soldiers’  graves  Columbia  proves 
How  fast  toward  morn  the  night  of  manhood  moves. 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


537 


Those  low  white  lines  at  Gettysburg  remain 
The  sacred  record  of  her  humblest  slain, 

Whose  children’s  children  in  their  time  shall  come 
To  view  with  pride  their  hero-father’s  tomb, 

While  down  the  ages  runs  the  patriot  line, 

Till  rich  tradition  makes  each  tomb  a shrine. 

Our  standing  army  these,  with  specter  glaives ; 

Our  fortressed  towns  their  battle-ordered  graves. 

Here  sleep  our  valiant,  sown  like  dragon’s  teeth  ; 
Here  new-born  sons  renew  the  pious  wreath  ; 

Here  proud  Columbia  bends  with  tear-stirred  mouth, 
To  kiss  their  blood-seal,  binding  North  and  South, 
Two  clasping  hands  upon  the  knot  they  tied 
When  Union  lived  and  Human  Slavery  died  ! 

Who  doubt  our  strength,  or  measure  it  with  those 
Whose  armed  millions  wait  for  coming  foes, 

They  judge  by  royal  standards,  that  depend 
On  hireling  hands  to  threaten  or  defend, 

That  keep  their  war-dogs  chained  in  time  of  peace, 
And  dread  a foe  scarce  less  than  their  release. 

Who  hunt  wild  beasts  with  cheetahs,  fiercely  tame, 
Must  watch  their  hounds  as  well  as  fear  their  game. 

Around  our  veterans  hung  no  dread  nor  doubt 
When  twice  a million  men  were  mustered  out. 

As  scattered  seed  in  new-plowed  land,  or  flakes 
Of  spring-time  snow  descend  in  smiling  lakes, 

Our  war-born  soldiers  sank  into  the  sea 
Of  peaceful  life  and  fruitful  energy. 

No  sign  remained  of  that  vast  army,  save 

In  field  and  street  new  workmen,  bronzed  and  grave  ; 

Some  whistling  teamsters  still  in  army  vest ; 

Some  quiet  citizens  with  medaled  breast. 

So  died  the  hatred  of  our  brother  feud  ; 

The  conflict  o’er  the  triumph  was  subdued. 


538 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


What  victor  King  e’er  spared  the  conquered  foe  ? 

How  much  of  mercy  did  strong  Prussia  show 
When  anguished  Paris  at  her  feet  lay  prone  ? 

The  German  trumpet  rang  above  her  moan, 

The  clink  of  Uhlan  spurs  her  temples  knew, 

Her  Arch  of  Triumph  spanned  their  triumph,  too. 

Not  thus,  O South  ! when  thy  proud  head  was  low, 
Thy  passionate  heart  laid  open  to  the  foe — 

Not  thus,  Virginia,  did  thy  victors  meet 
At  Appomattox  him  who  bore  defeat : 

No  brutal  show  abased  thine  honored  State  : 

Grant  turned  from  Richmond  at  the  very  gate  ! 

O Land  magnanimous,  republican  ! 

The  last  for  Nationhood,  the  first  for  Man  ! 

Because  thy  lines  by  Freedom’s  hand  were  laid 
Profound  the  sin  to  change  or  retrograde. 

From  base  to  cresting  let  thy  work  be  new  ; 

’Twas  not  by  aping  foreign  ways  it  grew. 

To  struggling  peoples  give  at  lealst  applause  ; 

Let  equities  not  precedent  subtend  your  laws  ; 

Like  rays  from  that  great  Eye  the  altars  show, 

That  fall  triangular,  free  states  should  grow, 

The  soul  above,  the  brain  and  hand  below. 

Believe  that  strength  lies  not  in  steel  nor  stone  ; 

That  perils  wait  the  land  whose  heavy  throne, 

Though  ringed  by  swords  and  rich  with  titled  show, 

Is  based  on  fettered  misery  below  ; 

That  nations  grow  where  every  class  unites 
For  common  interests  and  common  rights  ; 

Where  no  caste  barrier  stays  the  poor  man’s  son, 

Till  step  by  step  the  topmost  height  is  won  ; 

Where  every  hand  subscribes  to  every  rule, 

And  free  as  air  are  voice  and  vote  and  school ! 

A Nation’s  years  are  centuries.  Let  Art 
Portray  thy  first,  and  Liberty  will  start 
From  every  field  in  Europe  at  the  sight. 

“ Why  stand  these  thrones  between  us  and  the  light  ? ’ 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


539 


Strong  men  will  ask  : “ Who  built  these  frontier  towers 
To  bar  out  men  of  kindred  blood  with  ours  \ ” 

O,  this  thy  work,  Republic  ! this  thy  health, 

To  prove  man’s  birthright  to  a commonwealth  ; 

To  teach  the  peoples  to  be  strong  and  wise, 

Till  armies,  nations,  nobles,  royalties, 

Are  laid  at  rest  with  all  their  fears  and  hates  ; 

Till  Europe’s  thirteen  Monarchies  are  States, 

Without  a barrier  and  without  a throne, 

Of  one  grand  Federation  like  our  own  ! 


THE  POISON-FLOWER. 


IN  the  evergreen  shade  of  an  Austral  wood, 

Where  the  long  branches  laced  above, 

Through  which  all  day  it  seemed 
The  sweet  sunbeams  down-gleamed 
Like  the  rays  of  a young  mother’s  love, 

When  she  hides  her  glad  face  with  her  hands  and  peeps 
At  the  youngling  that  crows  on  her  knee  : 

’Neath  such  ray-shivered  shade, 

In  a banksia  glade, 

Was  this  flower  first  shown  to  me. 

A rich  pansy  it  was,  with  a small  white  lip 
And  a wonderful  purple  hood  ; 

And  your  eye  caught  the  sheen 
Of  its  leaves,  parrot-green, 

Down  the  dim  gothic  aisles  of  the  wood. 

And  its  foliage  rich  on  the  moistureless  sand 
Made  you  long  for  its  odorous  breath  ; 

But  ah  ! ’twas  to  take 
To  your  bosom  a snake, 

For  its  pestilent  fragrance  was  death. 


540 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


And  I saw  it  again,  in  a far  northern  land, — 

Not  a pansy,  not  purple  and  white  ; 

Yet  in  beauteous  guise 
Did  this  poison-plant  rise, 

Fair  and  fatal  again  to  my  sight. 

And  men  longed  for  her  kiss  and  her  odorous  breath 
When  no  friend  was  beside  them  to  tell 
That  to  kiss  was  to  die, 

That  her  truth  was  a lie, 

And  her  beauty  a soul-killing  spell. 


PEACE  AND  PAIN. 


THE  day  and  night  are  symbols  of  creation, 

And  each  has  part  in  all  that  God  has  made  ; 
There  is  no  ill  without  its  compensation, 

And  life  and  death  are  only  light  and  shade. 
There  never  beat  a heart  so  base  and  sordid 
But  felt  at  times  a sympathetic  glow  ; 

There  never  lived  a virtue  unrewarded, 

Nor  died  a vice  without  its  meed  of  woe. 

In  this  brief  life  despair  should  never  reach  us  ; 

The  sea  looks  wide  because  the  shores  are  dim  ; 
The  star  that  led  the  Magi  still  can  teach  us 
The  way  to  go  if  we  but  look  to  Him. 

And  as  we  wade,  the  darkness  closing  o’er  us, 

The  hungry  waters  surging  to  the  chin, 

Our  deeds  will  rise  like  stepping-stones  before  us — 
The  good  and  bad — for  we  may  use  the  sin. 

A sin  of  youth,  atoned  for  and  forgiven, 

Takes  on  a virtue,  if  we  choose  to  find  : 

When  clouds  across  our  onward  path  are  driven, 
We  still  may  steer  by  its  pale  light  behind. 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AMD  SPEECHES. 


541 


A sin  forgotten  is  in  part  to  pay  for, 

A sin  remembered  is  a constant  gain  : 

Sorrow,  next  joy,  is  what  we  ought  to  pray  for, 
As  next  to  peace  we  profit  most  from  pain. 


HIDDEN  SINS. 


FOR  every  sin  that  comes  before  the  light, 

And  leaves  an  outward  blemish  on  the  soul, 

How  many,  darker,  cower  out  of  sight, 

And  burrow,  blind  and  silent,  like  the  mole. 

And  like  the  mole,  too,  with  its  busy  feet 
That  dig  and  dig  a never-ending  cave, 

Our  hidden  sins  gnaw  through  the  soul,  and  meet 
And  feast  upon  each  other  in  its  grave. 

A buried  sin  is  like  a covered  sore 
That  spreads  and  festers  ’neath  a painted  face  ; 

And  no  man’s  art  can  heal  it  evermore, 

But  only  His — the  Surgeon’s — promised  grace. 

Who  hides  a sin  is  like  the  hunter  who 
Once  warmed  a frozen  adder  with  his  breath, 

And  when  he  placed  it  near  his  heart  it  flew 
With  poisoned  fangs  and  stung  that  heart  to  death. 

A sculptor  once  a granite  statue  made, 

One-sided  only,  just  to  fit  its  place  : 

The  unseen  side  was  monstrous ; so  men  shade 
Their  evil  acts  behind  a smiling  face. 

O blind  ! O foolish  ! thus  our  sins  to  hide, 

And  force  our  pleading  hearts  the  gall  to  sip  ; 

0 cowards  ! who  must  eat  the  myrrh,  that  Pride 
May  smile  like  Virtue  with  a lying  lip. 

A sin  admitted  is  nigh  half  atoned  ; 

And  while  the  fault  is  red  and  freshly  done, 


542 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


If  we  but  drop  our  eyes  and  think, — ’tis  owned, — 
’Tis  half  forgiven,  half  the  crown  is  won. 

But  if  we  heedless  let  it  reek  and  rot, 

Then  pile  a mountain  on  its  grave,  and  turn, 
With  smiles  to  all  the  world, — that  tainted  spot 
Beneath  the  mound  will  never  cease  to  burn. 


THE  LOSS  OF  THE  EMIGRANTS. 


The  Steamer  “Atlantic”  was  Wrecked  near  Halifax,  N.  S.,  April  1, 
1873,  and  560  Lives  Lost. 


FOR  months  and  years,  with  penury  and  want 
And  heart-sore  envy  did  they  dare  to  cope  ; 

And  mite  by  mite  was  saved  from  earnings  scant, 

To  buy,  some  future  day,  the  God-sent  hope. 

They  trod  the  crowded  streets  of  hoary  towns, 

- Or  tilled  from  year  to  year  the  wearied  fields, 

And  in  the  shadow  of  the  golden  crowns 
They  gasped  for  sunshine  and  the  health  it  yields. 

They  turned  from  homes  all  cheerless,  child  and  man, 
With  kindly  feelings  only  for  the  soil, 

And  for  the  kindred  faces,  pinched  and  wan, 

That  prayed,  and  stayed,  unwilling,  at  their  toil. 

They  lifted  up  their  faces  to  the  Lord, 

And  read  His  answer  in  the  westering  sun 
That  called  them  ever  as  a shining  word, 

And  beckoned  seaward  as  the  rivers  run. 

They  looked  their  last,  wet-eyed,  on  Swedish  hills, 

On  German  villages  and  English  dales  ; 

Like  brooks  that  grow  from  many  mountain  rills 
The  peasant-stream  flowed  out  from  Irish  vales. 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES.  543 

Their  grief  at  parting  was  not  all  a grief, 

But  blended  sweetly  with  the  joy  to  come, 

When  from  full  store  they  spared  the  rich  relief 
To  gladden  all  the  dear  ones  left  at  home. 

“ We  thank  thee,  God  ! ” they  cried;  4 ‘The  cruel  gate 
That  barred  our  lives  has  swung  beneath  Thy  hand  ; 

Behind  our  ship  now  frowns  the  cruel  fate, 

Before  her  smiles  the  teeming  Promised  Land  ! ” 

Alas  ! when  shown  in  mercy  or  in  wrath, 

How  weak  we  are  to  read  God’s  awful  lore  ! 

His  breath  protected  on  the  stormy  path, 

And  dashed  them  lifeless  on  the  promised  shore  ! 

His  hand  sustained  them  in  the  parting  woe, 

And  gave  bright  vision  to  the  heart  of  each 

His  waters  bore  them  where  they  wished  to  go, 

Then  swept  them  seaward  from  the  very  beach ! 

Their  home  is  reached,  their  fetters  now  are  riven, 

Their  humble  toil  is  o’er, — their  rest  has  come  ; 

A land  was  promised  and  a land  is  given, — 

But,  oh  ! God  help  the  waiting  ones  at  home  ! 


TRUST. 


A MAN  will  trust  another  man,  and  show 

His  secret  thought  and  act,  as  if  he  must ; 
A woman — does  she  tell  her  sins  ? Ah,  no  ! 

She  never  knew  a woman  she  could  trust. 


544 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


THE  FISHERMEN  OF  WEXFORD. 


THERE  is  an  old  tradition  sacred  held  in  Wexford  town, 
That  says:  “ Upon  St.  Martin’s  Eve  no  net  shall  be 
let  down  ; 

No  fishermen  of  Wexford  shall,  upon  that  holy  day, 

Set  sail  or  cast  a line  within  the  scope  of  Wexford  Bay.” 
The  tongue  that  framed  the  order,  or  the  time,  no  one 
could  tell ; 

And  no  one  ever  questioned,  but  the  people  kept  it  well. 
And  never  in  man’s  memory  was  fisher  known  to  leave 
The  little  town  of  Wexford  on  the  good  St.  Martin’s  Eve. 

Alas  ! alas  for  Wexford  ! once  upon  that  holy  day 
Came  a wondrous  shoal  of  herring  to  the  waters  of  the  Bay. 
The  fishers  and  their  families  stood  out  upon  the  beach, 
And  all  day  watched  with  wistful  eyes  the  wealth  they 
might  not  reach. 

Such  shoal  was  never  seen  before,  and  keen  regrets  went 
round — 

Alas!  alas  for  Wexford!  Hark!  what  is  that  grating 
sound  ? 

The  boats’  keels  on  the  shingle  ! Mothers  ! wives  ! ye  well 
may  grieve, — 

The  fishermen  of  Wexford  mean  to  sail  on  Martin  s Eve ! 

“Oh,  stay  ye!”  cried  the  women  wild.  “Stay!”  cried 
the  men  white-haired ; 

“ And  dare  ye  not  to  do  this  thing  your  fathers  never  dared. 
No  man  can  thrive  who  tempts  the  Lord ! ” “Away!” 
they  cried  : “ the  Lord 

Ne’er  sent  a shoal  of  fish  but  as  a fisherman’s  reward.” 

And  scoffingly  they  said,  “To-night  our  net  shall  sweep  the 
Bay, 

And  take  the  Saint  who  guards  it,  should  he  come  across 
our  way ! ” 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


545 


The  keels  have  touched  the  water,  and  the  crews  are  in 
each  boat ; 

And  on  St.  Martin’s  Eve  the  Wexford  fishers  are  afloat ! 

The  moon  is  shining  coldly  on  the  sea  and  on  the  land, 

On  dark  faces  in  the  fishing-fleet  and  pale  ones  on  the 
strand, 

As  seaward  go  the  daring  boats,  and  heavenward  the  cries 

Of  kneeling  wives  and  mothers  with  uplifted  hands  and 
eyes. 

“ Oh  Holy  Virgin  ! be  their  guard  ! ” the  weeping  women 
cried ; 

The  old  men,  sad  and  silent,  watched  the  boats  cleave 
through  the  tide, 

As  past  the  farthest  headland,  past  the  lighthouse,  in  a line 

The  fishing-fleet  went  seaward  through  the  phosphor- 
lighted  brine. 

Oh,  pray,  ye  wives  and  mothers ! All  your  prayers  they 
sorely  need 

To  save  them  from  the  wrath  they’ve  roused  by  their  rebel- 
lious greed. 

Oh  ! white-haired  men  and  little  babes,  and  weeping  sweet- 
hearts, pray 

To  God  to  spare  the  fishermen  to-night  in  Wexford  Bay  ! 

The  boats  have  reached  good  offing,  and,  as  out  the  nets 
are  thrown, 

The  hearts  ashore  are  chilled  to  hear  the  soughing  sea- 
wind’s  moan  : 

Like  to  a human  heart  that  loved,  and  hoped  for  some 
return, 

To  find  at  last  but  hatred,  so  the  sea-wind  seemed  to 
mourn. 

But  ah  ! the  Wexford  fishermen  ! their  nets  did  scarcely 
sink 


546  JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 

One  inch  below  the  foam,  when,  lo ! the  daring  boatmen 
shrink 

With  sudden  awe  and  whitened  lips  and  glaring  eyes 
agape, 

For  breast-high,  threatening,  from  the  sea  uprose  a Human 
Shape ! 

Beyond  them, — in  the  moonlight, — hand  upraised  and 
awful  mien, 

Waving  back  and  pointing  landward,  breast-high  in  the 
sea  ’twas  seen. 

Thrice  it  waved  and  thrice  it  pointed, — then,  with  clenched 
hand  upraised, 

The  awful  shape  went  down  before  the  fishers  as  they 
gazed ! 

Gleaming  whitely  through  the  water,  fathoms  deep  they 
saw  its  frown, — 

They  saw  its  white  hand  clenched  above  it, — sinking  slowly 
down  ! 

And  then  there  was  a rushing  ’neath  the  boats,  and  every 
soul 

Was  thrilled  with  greed : they  knew  it  was  the  seaward- 
going shoal ! 

Defying  the  dread  warning,  every  face  was  sternly  set, 

And  wildly  did  they  ply  the  oar,  and  wildly  haul  the  net. 

But  two  boats’  crews  obeyed  the  sign,  —God-fearing  men 
were  they, — 

They  cut  their  lines  and  left  their  nets,  and  homeward  sped 
away  ; 

But  darkly  rising  sternward  did  God’s  wrath  in  tempest 
sweep, 

And  they,  of  all  the  fishermen,  that  night  escaped  the 
deep. 

Oh,  wives  and  mothers,  sweethearts,  sires  ! well  might  ye 
mourn  next  day  ; 

For  seventy  fishers’  corpses  strewed  the  shores  of  Wexford 
Bay ! 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


547 


THE  WELL’S  SECRET. 


I KNEW  it  all  my  boyhood  : in  a lonesome  valley  meadow, 
Like  a dryad’s  mirror  hidden  by  the  wood’s  dim  arches 
near ; 

Its  eye  flashed  back  the  sunshine,  and  grew  dark  and  sad 
with  shadow ; 

And  I loved  its  truthful  depths  where  every  pebble  lay 
so  clear. 

I scooped  my  hand  and  drank  it,  and  watched  the  sensate 
quiver 

Of  the  rippling  rings  of  silver  as  the  beads  of  crystal 
fell; 

I pressed  the  richer  grasses  from  its  little  trickling  river, 
Till  at  last  I knew,  as  friends  know,  every  secret  of  the 
well. 

But  one  day  I stood  beside  it  on  a sudden,  unexpected, 
When  the  sun  had  crossed  the  valley  and  a shadow  hid 
the  place  ; 

And  I looked  in  the  dark  water — saw  my  pallid  cheek 
reflected — 

And  beside  it,  looking  upward,  met  an  evil  reptile  face : 

Looking  upward,  furtive,  startled  at  the  silent,  swift  in- 
trusion ; 

Then  it  darted  toward  the  grasses,  and  I saw  not  where 
it  fled  ; 

But  I knew  its  eyes  were  on  me,  and  the  old-time  sweet 
illusion 

Of  the  pure  and  perfect  symbol  I had  cherished  there 
was  dead. 

O,  the  pain  to  know  the  perjury  of  seeming  truth  that 
blesses ! 


548 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 

My  soul  was  seared  like  sin  to  see  the  falsehood  of  the 
place  ; 

And  the  innocence  that  mocked  me,  while  in  dim  unseen 
recesses 

There  were  lurking  fouler  secrets  than  the  furtive  reptile 
face. 

And  since  then, — O,  why  the  burden  ? — when  the  joyous 
faces  greet  me, 

With  their  eyes  of  limpid  innocence,  and  words  devoid 
of  art, 

I cannot  trust  their  seeming,  but  must  ask  what  eyes  would 
meet  me 

Could  I look  in  sudden  silence  at  the  secrets  of  the 
heart ! 


LIFE  IS  A CONFLUENCE. 


HUNGER  goes  sleeplessly 
Thinking  of  food  ; 

Evil  lies  painfully 
Yearning  for  good. 

Life  is  a confluence : 

Nature  must  move, 

Like  the  heart  of  a poet, 
Toward  beauty  and  love. 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


549 


THE  PATRIOT’S  GRAVE. 


Read  at  the  Emmet  Centennial  in  Boston,  Makch  4,  1878. 


4‘  I am  going-  to  my  cold  and  silent  grave — my  lamp  of  life  is  nearly 
extinguished.  I have  parted  with  everything  that  was  dear  to  me  in 
this  life  for  my  country’s  cause — with  the  idol  of  my  soul,  the  object  of 
my  affections  : my  race  is  run,  the  grave  opens  to  receive  me,  and  I 
sink  into  its  bosom  ! I have  but  one  request  to  make  at  my  departure 
from  this  world — it  is  the  charity  of  its  silence  ! Let  no  man  write  my 
epitaph  ; for,  as  no  man  who  knows  my  motives  dare  now  vindicate 
them,  let  not  ignorance  nor  prejudice  asperse  them.  Let  them  rest  in 
obscurity  and  peace  ! Let  my  memory  be  left  in  oblivion,  and  my 
tomb  un inscribed,  until  other  times  and  other  men  can  do  justice  to  my 
character.  When  my  country  takes  her  place  among  the  nations  of 
the  earth,  then,  and  not  till  then,  let  my  epitaph  be  written.” — Speech 
of  Robert  Emmet  in  the  Dock. 


I. 

TEAR  down  the  crape  from  the  column  ! Let  the  shaft 
stand  white  and  fair ! 

Be  silent  the  wailing  music — there  is  no  death  in  the  air ! 
We  come  not  in  plaint  or  sorrow — no  tears  may  dim  our 
sight : 

We  dare  not  weep  o’er  the  epitaph  we  have  not  dared  to 
write. 

Come  hither  with  glowing  faces,  the  sire,  the  youth,  and 
the  child ; 

This  grave  is  a shrine  for  reverent  hearts  and  hands  that 
are  undefiled  : 

Its  ashes  are  inspiration  ; it  giveth  us  strength  to  bear, 
And  sweepeth  away  dissension,  and  nerveth  the  will  to 
dare. 


In  the  midst  of  the  tombs  a Gravestone — and  written 
thereon  no  word  ! 

And  behold ! at  the  head  of  the  grave,  a gibbet,  a torch,  and 
a sword ! 


550 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


And  the  people  kneel  by  the  gibbet,  and  pray  by  the  name- 
less stone 

For  the  torch  to  be  lit,  and  the  name  to  be  writ,  and  the 
sword’s  red  work  to  be  done  ! 

ii. 

With  pride  and  not  with  grief 
We  lay  this  century  leaf 
Upon  the  tomb,  with  hearts  that  do  not  falter : 

A few  brief,  toiling  years 
Since  fell  the  nation’s  tears, 

And  lo,  the  patriot’s  gibbet  is  an  altar  ! 

The  people  that  are  blest 
Have  him  they  love  the  best 
To  mount  the  martyr’s  scaffold  when  they  need  him  ; 
And  vain  the  cords  that  bind 
While  the  nation’s  steadfast  mind, 

Like  the  needle  to  the  pole,  is  true  to  freedom  ! 

hi. 

Three  powers  there  are  that  dominate  the  world — 

Fraud,  Force,  and  Eight — and  two  oppress  the  one : 

The  bolts  of  Fraud  and  Force  like  twins  are  hurled — 
Against  them  ever  standeth  Eight  alone. 

Cyclopian  strokes  the  brutal  allies  give  : 

Their  fetters  massive  and  their  dungeon  walls ; 

Beneath  their  yoke,  weak  nations  cease  to  live, 

And  valiant  Eight  itself  defenseless  falls  ! 

Defaced  is  law,  and  justice  slain  at  birth  ; 

Good  men  are  broken — malefactors  thrive  ; 

But,  when  the  tyrants  tower  o’er  the  earth, 

Behind  their  wheels  strong  right  is  still  alive ! 

Alive,  like  seed  that  God’s  own  hand  has  sown — 

Like  seed  that  lieth  in  the  lowly  furrow, 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


551 


But  springs  to  life  when  wintry  winds  are  blown  : 

To-day  the  earth  is  gray — ’tis  green  to-morrow. 

The  roots  strike  deep  despite  the  rulers’  power, 

The  plant  grows  strong  with  summer  sun  and  rain, 

Till  autumn  bursts  the  deep  red-hearted  flower, 

And  freedom  marches  to  the  front  again  ! 

While  slept  the  right,  and  reigned  the  dual  wrong, 
Unchanged,  unchecked,  for  half  a thousand  years, 

In  tears  of  blood  we  cried,  “ O Lord,  how  long  % ” 

And  even  God  seemed  deaf  to  Erin’s  tears. 

But  when  she  lay  all  weak  and  bruised  and  broken, 

Her  white  limbs  seared  with  cruel  chain  and  thorn — 
As  bursts  the  cloud,  the  lightning  word  was  spoken, 
God’s  seed  took  root — His  crop  of  men  was  born  ! 

With  one  deep  breath  began  the  land’s  progression  : 

On  every  field  the  seeds  of  freedom  fell : 

Burke,  Grattan,  Floody  and  Curran  in  the  session— 
Fitzgerald,  Sheares,  and  Emmet  in  the  cell ! 

Such  teachers  soon  aroused  the  dormant  nation — 

Such  sacrifice  insured  the  endless  fight : 

The  voice  of  Grattan  smote  wrong’s  domination — 

The  death  of  Emmet  sealed  the  cause  of  right ! 

iv. 

Richest  of  gifts  to  a nation  ! Death  with  the  living  crown  ! 

Type  of  ideal  manhood  to  the  people’s  heart  brought 
down  ! 

Fount  of  the  hopes  we  cherish — test  of  the  things  we  do  ; 

Gorgon’ s face  for  the  traitor — talisman  for  the  true  ! 

Sweet  is  the  love  of  a woman,  and  sweet  is  the  kiss  of  a 
child ; 

Sweet  is  the  tender  strength,  and  the  bravery  of  the  mild  ; 


552 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


But  sweeter  than  all,  for  embracing  all,  is  the  young  life’s 
peerless  price — 

The  young  heart  laid  on  the  altar,  as  a nation’s  sacrifice. 

How  can  the  debt;  be  canceled  ? Prayers  and  tears  we  may 
give — 

But  how  recall  the  anguish  of  hearts  that  have  ceased  to 
live  ? 

Flushed  with  the  pride  of  genius — filled  with  the  strength 
of  life — 

Thrilled  with  delicious  passion  for  her  who  would  be  his 
wife — 

This  was  the  heart  he  offered — the  upright  life  he  gave — 

This  is  the  silent  sermon  of  the  patriot’ s nameless  grave. 

Shrine  of  a nation’s  honor — stone  left  blank  for  a name — 

Light  on  the  dark  horizon  to  guide  us  clear  from  shame — 

Chord  struck  deep  with  the  keynote,  telling  us  what  can 
save — 

“A  nation  among  the  nations,”  or  forever  a nameless 
grave. 

Such  is  the  will  of  the  martyr — the  burden  we  still  must 
bear  ; 

But  even  from  death  he  reaches  the  legacy  to  share  : 

He  teaches  the  secret  of  manhood — the  watchword  of  those 
who  aspire — 

That  men  must  follow  freedom  though  it  lead  through 
blood  and  fire ; 

That  sacrifice  is  the  bitter  draught  which  freemen  still  must 
quaff — 

That  every  patriotic  life  is  the  patriot’s  epitaph. 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


553 


THE  FEAST  OF  THE  GAEL. 


ST.  PATRICK’S  DAY. 


I. 


"YTTHAT  a union  of  hearts  is  the  love  of  a mother 
V V When  races  of  men  in  her  name  unite  ! 

For  love  of  Old  Erin,  and  love  of  each  other, 

The  boards  of  the  Gael  are  full  to-night ! 

Their  millions  of  men  have  one  toast  and  one  topic — 

Their  feuds  laid  aside  and  their  envies  removed  ; 

From  the  pines  of  the  Pole  to  the  palms  of  the  Tropic, 
They  drink:  “The  dear  Land  we  have  prayed  for  and 
loved ! ” 

They  are  One  by  the  bond  of  a time-honored  fashion  ; 

Though  strangers  may  see  but  the  lights  of  their  feast, 
Beneath  lies  the  symbol  of  faith  and  of  passion 
Alike  of  the  Pagan  and  Christian  priest ! 


ii. 

When  native  laws  by  native  kings 
At  Tara  were  decreed, 

The  grand  old  Gheber  worship 
Was  the  form  of  Erin’s  creed. 

The  Sun,  Life-giver,  was  God  on  high ; 

Men  worshipped  the  Power  they  saw  ; 

And  they  kept  the  faith  as  the  ages  rolled 
By  the  solemn  Beltane  law. 

Each  year,  on  the  Holy  Bay,  was  quenched 
The  household  fires  of  the  land  ; 

And  the  Bruid  priest,  at  the  midnight  hour, 
Brought  forth  the  flaming  brand, — 

The  living  spark  for  the  Nation’s  hearths,— 
From  the  Monarch’s  hand  it  came. 


554 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


Whose  fire  at  Tara  spread  the  sign — 

And  the  people  were  One  by  the  flame  ! 

And  Baal  was  God  ! till  Patrick  came, 

By  the  Holy  Name  inspired  ; 

On  the  Beltane  night,  .in  great  Tara’s  sight, 

His  pile  at  Slane  was  fired. 

And  the  deed  that  was  death  was  the  Nation’s  life, 
And  the  doom  of  the  Pagan  bane  ; 

For  Erin  still  keeps  Beltane  night, 

But  lights  her  lamp  at  Slane  ! 

Though  fourteen  centuries  pile  their  dust 
On  the  mound  of  the  Druid’s  grave, 

To-night  is  the  Beltane  ! Bright  the  fire 
That  Holy  Patrick  gave  ! 

To-night  is  the  Beltane  ! Let  him  heed 
Who  studieth  creed  and  race  : 

Old  times  and  gods  are  dead,  and  we 
Are  far  from  the  ancient  place  ; 

The  waves  of  centuries,  war,  and  waste, 

Of  famine,  gallows,  and  goal, 

Have  swept  our  land  ; but  the  world  to-night 
Sees  the  Beltane  Fire  of  the  Gael ! 

hi. 

O land  of  sad  fate ! like  a desolate  queen, 

Who  remembers  in  sorrow  the  crown  of  her  glory, 

The  love  of  thy  children  not  strangely  is  seen — 

For  humanity  weeps  at  thy  heart- touching  story. 

Strong  heart  in  affliction  ! that  draweth  thy  foes 
Till  they  love  thee  more  dear  than  thine  own  generation  : 
Thy  strength  is  increased  as  thy  life-current  flows, — 
What  were  death  to  another  is  Ireland’s  salvation  ! 

God  scatters  her  sons  like  the  seed  on  the  lea, 

And  they  root  where  they  fall,  be  it  mountain  or  furrow 
They  come  to  remain  and  remember  ; and  she 
In  their  growth  will  rejoice  in  a blissful  to-morrow  ! 


555 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 

They  sing  in  strange  lands  the  sweet  songs  of  their  home, 
Their  emerald  Zion  enthroned  in  the  billows  ; 

To  work,  not  to  weep  by  the  rivers  they  come  : 

Their  harps  are  not  hanged  in  despair  on  the  willows. 

The  hope  of  the  mother  beats  youthful  and  strong, 
Responsive  and  true  to  her  children’s  pulsations, 

No  petrified  heart  has  she  saved  from  the  wrong — 

Our  Niobe  lives  for  her  place  ’mong  the  nations  ! 

Then  drink,  all  her  sons — be  they  Keltic  or  Danish, 

Or  Norman  or  Saxon — one  mantle  was  o’er  us  ; 

Let  race  lines,  and  creed  lines,  and  every  line,  vanish — 
We  drink  as  the  Gael : “ To  the  Mother  that  bore  us ! ” 


MARY. 


DEAR  honored  name,  beloved  for  human  ties, 

But  loved  and  honored  first  that  One  was  given 
In  living  proof  to  erring  mortal  eyes 
That  our  poor  earth  is  near  akin  to  heaven. 

Sweet  word  of  dual  meaning : one  of  grace, 

And  born  of  our  kind  advocate  above  ; 

And  one  by  memory  linked  to  that  dear  face 
That  blessed  my  childhood  with  its  mother-love, 

And  taught  me  first  the  simple  prayer,  “To  thee, 
Poor  banished  sons  of  Eve,  we  send  our  cries.” 
Through  mist  of  years,  those  words  recall  to  me 
A childish  face  upturned  to  loving  eyes. 

And  yet  to  some  the  name  of  Mary  bears 
No  special  meaning  and  no  gracious  power  ; 

In  that  dear  word  they  seek  for  hidden  snares, 

As  wasps  find  poison  in  the  sweetest  flower. 


556  JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 

Bat  faithful  hearts  can  see,  o’er  doubts  and  fears, 
The  Virgin  link  that  binds  the  Lord  to  earth  ; 
Which  to  the  upturned  trusting  face  appears 
A more  than  angel,  though  of  human  birth. 

The  sweet-faced  moon  reflects  on  cheerless  night 
The  rays  of  hidden  sun  to  rise  to-morrow 
So  unseen  God  still  lets  His  promised  light, 
Through  holy  Mary,  shine  upon  our  sorrow. 


THE  WAIL  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


Chicago,  October  9,  1871. 

GAUNT  in  the  midst  of  the  prairie, 
She  who  was  once  so  fair  ; 

Charred  and  rent  are  her  garments, 
Heavy  and  dark  like  cerements  ; 

Silent,  but  round  her  the  air 
Plaintively  wails,  “ Miserere ! ” 

Proud  like  a beautiful  maiden, 

Art-like  from  forehead  to  feet, 

Was  she  till  pressed  like  a leman 
Close  to  the  breast  of  the  demon, 
Lusting  for  one  so  sweet, 

So  were  her  shoulders  laden. 

Friends  she  had,  rich  in  her  treasures  : 
Shall  the  old  taunt  be  true, — 
Fallen,  they  turn  their  cold  faces, 
Seeking  new  wealth-gilded  places, 
Saying  we  never  knew 
Aught  of  her  smiles  or  her  pleasures  ? 

Silent  she  stands  on  the  prairie, 

Wrapped  m her  fire- scathed  sheet; 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


557 


Around  her,  thank  God  ! is  the  Nation, 
Weeping  for  her  desolation, 

Pouring  its  gold  at  her  feet, 
Answering  her  “ Miserere  ! ” 


Boston,  November  9,  1872. 

O broad-breasted  Queen  among  Nations ! 

O Mother,  so  strong  in  thy  youth  ! 

Has  the  Lord  looked  upon  thee  in  ire, 

And  willed  thou  be  chastened  by  fire, 

Without  any  ruth  % 

Has  the  Merciful  tired  of  His  mercy, 

And  turned  from  thy  sinning  in  wrath, 
That  the  world  with  raised  hand  sees  and  pities 
Thy  desolate  daughters,  thy  cities, 

Despoiled  on  their  path  ? 

One  year  since  thy  youngest  was  stricken : 

Thy  eldest  lies  stricken  to-day. 

Ah  ! God,  was  thy  wrath  without  pity, 

To  tear  the  strong  heart  from  our  city, 

And  cast  it  away  ? 

O Father ! forgive  us  our  doubting ; 

The  stain  from  our  weak  souls  efface  ; 

Thou  rebukest,  we  know,  but  to  chasten  ; 

Thy  hand  has  but  fallen  to  hasten 
Return  to  thy  grace. 

Let  us  rise  purified  from  our  ashes 

As  sinners  have  risen  who  grieved  ; 

Let  us  show  that  twice-sent  desolation 
On  every  true  heart  in  the  nation 
Has  conquest  achieved. 


558 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’KEILLY. 


MULEY  MALEK,  THE  KING. 


THUNDER,  of  guns,  and  cries — banners  and  spears  and 
blood  ! 

Troops  have  died  where  they  stood  holding  the  vantage 
points — 

They  have  raced  like  waves  at  a wall,  and  dashed  them- 
selves to  death. 

Dawn  the  fight  begin,  and  noon  was  red  with  its  noon. 

The  armies  stretch  afar — and  the  plain  of  Alcazar 
Is  drenched  with  Moorish  blood. 

On  one  side,  Muley  the  King — Muley  Malek  the  Strong. 

He  had  seized  the  Moorish  crown  because  it  would  fit  his 
brows. 

Hamet  the  Fair  was  king ; but  Muley  pulled  him  down, 
because  he  was  strong. 


The  fierce  sun  glares  on  the  clouds  of  dust  and  battle- 
smoke, 

The  hoarsened  soldiers  choke  in  the  blinding  heat. 

Muley  the  King  is  afield,  but  sick  to  the  death. 

Borne  on  a litter  he  lies,  his  blood  on  fire,  his  eyes 

Flaming  with  fever  light. 

Hamah  Tabah  the  Captain,  stands  by  the  curtained  bed, 

Telling  him  news  of  the  fight — how  the  waves  roll  and  rise, 
and  clash  and  mingle  and  seethe. 

And  Hamah  bends  to  the  scene.  He  peers  under  arched 
hand — 

As  an  eagle  he  stoops  to  the  field.  One  hand  on  the  hilt 

Is  white  at  the  knuckles,  so  fiercely  gripped  ; while  the 
hand 

That  had  parted  the  curtains  before  now  clutches  the  silk 
and  wrings. 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES.  559 

Hamet’s  squadrons  are  moving  in  mass — their  lines  are 
circling  the  plain ! 

The  thousands  of  Muley  stand,  like  bison  dazed  by  an 
earthquake ; 


They  are  stunned  by  the  thud  of  the  fight,  they  are  deer 
without  a leader  ; 

Their  charge  has  died  like  the  impulse  of  missiles  freed 
from  the  sling  ; 

Their  spears  waver  like  shaken  barley, — they  are  dumb- 
struck and  ready  to  fly  ! 

Hamah  Tabah  the  Captain,  in  words  like  the  pouring  of 
pitch,  has  painted 

The  terrible  scene  for  the  sick  King,  and  terrible  ‘answer 
follows. 

Up  from  the  couch  of  pain,  disdaining  the  bonds  of  weak- 
ness ; 

Flinging  aside  disease  as  a wrestler  flings  his  tunic  ; 

Strong  with  the  smothered  fire  of  fever,  and  fiercer  far  than 
its  flaming, 

Rises  in  mail  from  the  litter  Muley  Malek  the  King ! 


Down  on  his  plunging  stallion,  in  the  eyes  of  the  shud- 
dered troops, 

His  bent  plume  like  a smoke,  and  his  sword  like  a flame, 

Smelting  their  souls  with  his  courage,  he  rides  before  his 
soldiers  ! 

They  bend  from  his  face  like  the  sun — their  eyes  are  blind 
with  shame — 

They  thrill  as  a stricken  tiger  thrills,  gathering  his  limbs 
from  a blow  ; 

They  raise  their  faces,  and  watch  him,  sworded  and  mailed 
and  strong  ; 

They  watch  him,  and  shout  his  name  fiercely — “Muley, 
the  King  ! ” 


560 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


Grimly  they  close  their  ranks,  drinking  his  face  like  wine ; 

Strength  to  the  arm  and  wrath  to  the  sonl,  and  power — 

Fuel  and  fire  he  was — and  the  battle  roared  like  a crater  ! 

Back  to  the  litter,  his  face  turned  from  the  lines,  and 
fixed 

In  a stare  like  the  faces  in  granite,  the  King 

Rode  straight  and  strong,  holding  his  sword 

Soldierly,  gripped  on  the  thigh,  grim  as  a king  in  iron  ! 

Stiff  in  the  saddle,  stark,  frowning — one  hand  is  raised, 

The  mailed  finger  is  laid  on  the  mouth  : 

“ Silence  ! ” the  warning  said  to  Hamah  Tabah  the  Captain. 

Help  from  his  horse  they  give,  moving  him,  still  unbend- 
ing, 

Down  to  the  bed,  and  lay  him  within  the  curtains. 

Mutely  they  answer  his  frown,  like  ridges  of  bronze,  and 
sternly 

Again  is  the  mailed  hand  raised  and  laid  on  the  lips  in 
warning : 

“ Silence  ! ” it  said,. and  the  meaning  smote  through  their 
blood  like  flame, 

As  the  tremor  passed  through  his  armor  and  the  grayness 
crept  o’er  his  features — 

Muley  the  King  was  dead  ! 

Furious  the  struggle  and  long,  the  armies  with  teeth 
aclench 

And  dripping  weapons  shortened,  like  athletes  whose 
blows  have  killed  pain. 

The  soldiers  of  Hamet  were  flushed — but  the  spirit  of 
Muley  opposed  them  ; 

The  weak  of  Muley  grew  strong  when  they  looked  at  the 
curtained  litter. 

Their  thought  of  the  King  was  wine  in  the  thirst  of  the 
fight ; 


561 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 

They  saw  that  Hamah  was  there,  still  bending  over  the 
bed ; 

Holding  the  curtains  wide  and  taking  the  order  that  came 

From  the  burning  lips  of  the  King,  and  sending  it  down  to 
his  soldiers  ; 

They  knew  that  Hamah  the  Captain  was  telling  him  of  the 
onset, 

How  they  swept  like  hail  on  the  fields,  and  left  them  like 
sickled  grain. 

Back,  as  the  waves  in  a tempest  are  flung  from  a cliff  and 
scattered, 

Burst  and  horribly  broken  and  driven  beneath  with  the 
impact, 

Shivered,  for  once  and  forever,  the  conquered  forces  ; King 
Hamet 

Was  slain  by  the  sword,  and  the  foreign  monarch  who 
helped  him, 

And  the  plain  was  swept  by  the  besom  of  death  : 

There  never  was  grander  faith  in  a king  ! 

Trophies  and  victors’  crowns,  bring  them  to  bind  his  brow  ! 

Circle  his  curtained  bed — thousands  and  thousands,  come  ! 

It  will  cure  him,  and  kill  his  pain — we  must  see  him  to- 
night again : 

One  glance  of  his  love  and  pride  for  all  the  hosts  that 
died — 

To  his  bedside — come  ! 

Rigid,  with  frowning  brow,  his  finger  laid  on  his  lips, 

They  saw  him — saw  him  and  knew,  and  read  the  word  that 
he  spake, 

Stronger  than  death,  and  they  stood  in  their  tears,  and 
were  silent, 

Obeying  the  King ! 


562 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 

HEART-HUNGER. 


THERE  is  no  truth  in  faces,  save  in  children  : 

They  laugh  and  frown  and  weep  from  nature’s  keys 
But  we  who  meet  the  world  give  out  false  notes, 

The  true  note  dying  muffled  in  the  heart. 

O,  there  be  woeful  prayers  and  piteous  wailing, 

That  spirits  hear,  from  lives  that  starve  for  love  ! 

The  body’s  food  is  bread  ; and  wretches’  cries 
Are  heard  and  answered  : but  the  spirit’s  food 
Is  love  ; and  hearts  that  starve  may  die  in  agony 
And  no  physician  mark  the  cause  of  death. 

You  cannot  read  the  faces  ; they  are  masks — 

Like  yonder  woman,  smiling  at  the  lips, 

Silk-clad,  bejeweled,  lapped  with  luxury, 

And  beautiful  and  young — ay,  smiling  at  the  lips, 

But  never  in  the  eyes  from  inner  light : 

A gracious  temple  hung  with  flowers  without — 

Within,  a naked  corpse  upon  the  stones  ! 

O,  years  and  years  ago  the  hunger  came — 

The  desert-thirst  for  love — she  prayed  for  love — 

She  cried  out  in  the  night-time  of  her  soul  for  love  ! 
The  cup  they  gave  was  poison  whipped  to  froth. 

For  years  she  drank  it,  knowing  it  for  death  ; 

She  shrieked  in  soul  against  it,  but  must  drink  : 

The  skies  were  dumb — she  dared  not  swoon  or  scream. 
As  Indian  mothers  see  babes  die  for  food, 

She  watched  dry-eyed  beside  her  starving  heart, 

And  only  sobbed  in  secret  for  its  gasps, 

And  only  raved  one  wild  hour  when  it  died ! 

O Pain,  have  pity  ! Numb  her  quivering  sense ; 

O Fame,  bring  guerdon  ! Thrice  a thousand  years 
Thy  boy-thief  with  the  fox  beneath  his  cloak 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


563 


Has  let  it  gnaw  liis  side  unmoved,  and  held  the  world  ; 
And  she,  a slight  woman,  smiling  at  the  lips, 

With  repartee  and  jest — a corpse-heart  in  her  breast ! 


SILENCE,  NOT  DEATH. 


I START  ! I have  slept  for  a moment ; 

I have  dreamt,  sitting  here  by  her  chair — 

Oh,  how  lonely  ! What  was  it  that  touched  me  ? 
What  presence,  what  heaven-sent  air  ? 

It  was  nothing,  you  say.  But  I tremble  ! 

I heard  her,  I knew  she  was  near — 

Felt  her  breath,  felt  her  cheek  on  my  forehead — 
Awake  or  asleep,  she  was  here  ! 

It  was  nothing — a dream  ? Strike  that  harp-string ; 

Again — still  again — till  it  cries 
In  its  uttermost  treble — still  strike  it — 

Ha  ? vibrant  but  silent ! It  dies — 

It  dies,  just  as  she  died.  Go,  listen — 

That  highest  vibration  is  dumb. 

Your  sense,  friend,  too  soon  finds  a limit 
And  answer,  when  mysteries  come. 

Truth  speaks  in  the  senseless,  the  spirit ; 

But  here  in  this  palpable  part 
We  sound  the  low  notes,  but  are  silent 
To  music  sublimed  in  the  heart. 

Too  few  and  too  gross  our  dull  senses, 

And  clogged  with  the  mire  of  the  road, 

Till  we  loathe  their  coarse  bondage  ; as  seabirds 
Encaged  on  a cliff,  look  abroad 


564 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


On  the  ocean  and  limitless  heaven, 

Alight  with  the  beautiful  stars, 

And  hear  what  they  say,  not  the  creakings 
That  rise  from  our  sensual  bars. 

O life,  let  me  dream,  let  her  presence 
Be  near  me,  her  fragrance,  her  breath  ; 
Let  me  sleep,  if  in  slumber  the  seeking ; 
Sleep  on,  if  the  finding  be  death. 


RESURGITE  !— JUNE,  1877. 


NOW,  for  the  faith  that  is  in  ye, 

Polander,  Sclav,  and  Kelt ! 

Prove  to  the  world  what  the  lips  have  hurled 
The  hearts  have  grandly  felt. 

Rouse,  ye  races  in  shackles  ! 

See  in  the  East,  the  glare 
Is  red  in  the  sky,  and  the  warning  cry 
Is  sounding — “Awake  ! Prepare ! ” 

A voice  from  the  spheres — a hand  downreaclied 
To  hands  that  would  be  free, 

To  rend  the  gyves  from  the  fettered  lives 
That  strain  toward  Liberty  ! 

Circassia  ! the  cup  is  flowing 
That  holdeth  perennial  youth  : 

Who  strikes  succeeds,  for  when  manhood  bleeds 
Each  drop  is  a Cadmus’  tooth. 

Sclavonia  ! first  from  the  sheathing 
Thy  knife  to  the  cord  that  binds  ; 

Thy  one-tongued  host  shall  renew  the  boast : 

“ The  Scythians  are  the  Winds  ! ” 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


565 


Greece  ! to  the  grasp  of  heroes, 

Flashed  with  thine  ancient  pride, 

Thy  swords  advance  : in  the  passing  chance 
The  great  of  heart  are  tried. 

Poland  ! thy  lance-heads  brighten  : 

The  Tartar  has  swept  thy  name 

From  the  schoolman’s  chart,  but  the  patriot’s  heart 
Preserves  its  lines  in  flame. 

Ireland  ! mother  of  dolors, 

The  trial  on  thee  descends  : 

Who  quailetli  in  fear  when  the  test  is  near, 

His  bondage  never  ends. 

Oppression,  that  kills  the  craven, 

Defied,  is  the  freeman’s  good  : 

No  cause  can  be  lost  forever  whose  cost 
Is  coined  from  Freedom’s  blood  ! 

Liberty’s  wine  and  altar 
Are  blood  and  human  right ; 

Her  weak  shall  be  strong  while  the  struggle  with  wrong 
Is  a sacrificial  fight. 

Earth  for  the  people — their  laws  their  own — 

An  equal  race  for  all  : 

Though  shattered  and  few  who  to  this  are  true 
Shall  flourish  the  more  they  fall. 


IRELAND— 1882. 


ISLAND  of  Destiny  ! Innisfail ! ” they  cried,  when 
their  weary  eyes 

First  looked  on  thy  beauteous  bosom  from  the  amorous 
ocean  rise. 


566  JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 

“ Island  of  Destiny!  Innisfail!”  we  cry,  dear  land,  to 
thee, 

As  the  sun  of  thy  future  rises  and  reddens  the  western  sea ! 

Pregnant  as  earth  with  its  gold  and  gems  and  its  metals 
strong  and  fine, 

Is  thy  soul  with  its  ardors  and  fancies  and  sympathies 
divine. 

Mustard  seed  of  the  nations  ! they  scattered  thy  leaves  to 
the  air, 

But  the  ravisher  pales  at  the  harvest  that  flourishes  every- 
where. 

Queen  in  the  right  of  thy  courage ! manacled,  scourged, 
defamed, 

Thy  voice  in  the  teeth  of  the  bayonets  the  right  of  a race 
proclaimed. 

“ Bah  ! ” they  sneered  from  their  battlements,  “her  people 
cannot  unite  ; 

They  are  sands  of  the  sea,  that  break  before  the  rush  of  our 
ordered  might ! ” 

And  wherever  the -flag  of  the  pirate  flew,  the  English  slur 
was  heard, 

And  the  shallow  of  soul  re-echoed  the  boast  of  the  taunting 
word. 

But  we — O sun,  that  of  old  was  our  god,  we  look  in  thy 
face  to-day, 

As  our  Druids  who  prayed  in  the  ancient  time,  and  with 
them  we  proudly  say  : 

“We  have  wronged  no  race,  we  have  robbed  no  land,  we 
have  never  oppressed  the  weak  ! ” 

And  this  in  the  face  of  Heaven  is  the  nobler  thing  to  speak. 

We  can  never  unite — thank  God  for  that ! in  such  unity  as 
yours, 

That  strangles  the  rights  of  others,  and  only  itself  endures 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES.  567 

As  the  guard  of  a bloodstained  spoil  and  the  red-eyed  watch 
of  the  slave  ; 

No  need  for  such  robber-union  to  a race  free-souled  and 
brave. 

The  races  that  band  for  plunder  are  the  mud  of  the  human 
stream, 

The  base  and  the  coward  and  sordid,  without  an  unselfish 
gleam. 

It  is  mud  that  unites  ; but  the  sand  is  free — ay,  every  grain 
is  free, 

And  the  freedom  of  individual  men  is  the  highest  of  liberty. 

It  is  mud  that  coheres  ; but  the  sand  is  free,  till  the  light- 
ning smite  the  shore, 

And  smelt  the  grains  to  a crystal  mass,  to  return  to  sand  no 
more. 

And  so  with  the  grains  of  our  Irish  sand,  that  flash  clear- 
eyed to  the  sun, 

Till  a noble  Purpose  smites  them  and  melts  them  into  one. 

+ 

While  the  sands  are  free,  O Tyrants  ! like  the  wind  are 
your  steel  and  speech  ; 

Your  brute-force  crushes  a legion,  but  a soul  it  can  never 
reach. 

Island  of  Destiny!  Innisfail?  for  thy  faith  is  the  pay- 
ment near : , 

The  mine  of  the  future  is  opened,  and  the  golden  veins 
appear. 

Thy  hands  are  white  and  thy  page  unstained.  Reach  out 
for  the  glorious  years, 

And  take  them  from  God  as  His  recompense  for  thy  forti- 
tude and  tears. 

Thou  canst  stand  by  the  way  ascending,  as  thy  tyrant  goes 
to  the  base : 


568  JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 

The  seeds  of  her  death  are  in  her  and  the  signs  in  her  cruel 
face. 

On  her  darkened  path  lie  the  corpses  of  men,  with  whose 
blood  her  feet  are  red  ; 

And  the  curses  of  ruined  nations  are  a cloud  above  her 
head. 

O Erin,  fresh  in  the  latest  day,  like  a gem  from  a Syrian 
tomb, 

The  burial  clay  of  the  centuries  has  saved  thy  light  in  the 
gloom. 

Thy  hands  may  stretch  to  a kindred  world  : there  is  none 
that  hates  but  one  ; 

And  she  but  hates  as  a pretext  for  the  rapine  she  has  done. 

The  night  of  thy  grief  is  closing,  and  the  sky  in  the  East  is 
red : 

Thy  children  watch  from  the  mountain-tops  for  the  sun  to 
kiss  thy  head. 

O Mother  of  men  that  are  fit  to  be  free,  for  their  test  for 
freedom  borne, 

Thy  vacant  place  in  the  Nations’  race  awaits  but  the  com- 
ing morn  ! 


THE  EMPTY  NICffE. 


Read  at  the  farewell  reception  given  to  Rev.  Robert  Fulton,  S.  J.,  at 
Boston  College  Hall,  February  5,  1880. 


A KING  once  made  a gallery  of  art, 

With  portraits  of  dead  friends  and  living  graced  ; 
And  at  the  end,  ’neatli  curtains  drawn  apart, 

An  empty  marble  pedestal  was  placed, 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES.  569 

Here,  every  day,  the  king  would  come,  and  pace 
With  eyes  well-pleased  along  the  statued  hall  ; 

But,  ere  he  left,  he  turned  with  saddened  face, 

And  mused  before  the  curtained  pedestal. 

And  once  a courtier  asked  him  why  he  kept 
The  shadowed  niche  to  fill  his  heart  with  dole  ; 

“For  absent  friends,’’  the  monarch  said,  and  wept ; 

“ There  still  must  be  one  absent  to  the  soul.” 

And  this  is  true  of  all  the  hearts  that  beat ; 

Though  days  be  soft  and  summer  pathways  fair, 

Be  sure,  while  joyous  glances  round  us  meet, 

The  curtained  crypt  and  vacant  plinth  are  there. 

To-day  we  stand  before  our  draped  recess  : 

There  is  none  absent — all  we  love  are  here ; 

To-morrow’ s hands  the  opening  curtains  press, 

And  lo,  the  pallid  pediment  is  bare  ! 

The  cold  affection  that  plain  duty  breeds 
May  see  its  union  severed,  and  approve  ; 

But  when  our  bond  is  touched,  it  throbs  and  bleeds — 
We  pay  no  meed  of  duty,  but  of  love. 

As  creeping  tendrils  shudder  from  the  stone, 

The  vines  of  love  avoid  the  frigid  heart ; 

The  work  men  do  is  not  their  test  alone, 

The  love  they  win  is  far  the  better  chart. 

They  say  the  citron- tree  will  never  thrive 
Transplanted  from  the  soil  where  it  matured  ; 

Ah,  would  ’twere  so  that  men  could  only  live 
Through  working  on  where  they  had  love  secured  ! 

“ The  People  of  the  Book,”  men  called  the  Jews — 

Our  priests  are  truly  “ People  of  the  Word  ; ” 

And  he  who  serves  the  Master  must  not  choose — 

He  renders  feudal  service  to  the  Lord. 


570 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


But  we  who  love  and  lose  will,  like  the  king, 

Still  keep  the  alcove  empty  in  the  hall, 

And  hope,  lirm-hearted,  that  some  day  will  bring 
Our  absent  one  to  till  his  pedestal. 


MIDNIGHT— SEPTEMBER  19,  1881. 


DEATH  OF  PRESIDENT  GARFIELD. 


ONCE  in  a lifetime,  we  may  see  the  veil 

Tremble  and  lift,  that  hides  symbolic  things  ; 

The  Spirit’s  vision,  when  the  senses  fail, 

Sweeps  the  weird  meaning  that  the  outlook  brings. 

Deep  in  the  midst  of  turmoil,  it  may  be — 

A crowded  street,  a forum,  or  a field, — 

The  soul  inverts  the  telescope  to  see 
To-day’s  event  in  future’s  years  revealed. 

Back  from  the  present,  let  us  look  at  Rome  : 

Behold,  what  Cato  meant,  what  Brutus  said. 

Hark  ! the  Athenians  welcome  Cimon  home  ! 

How  clear  they  are  those  glimpses  of  the  dead  ! 

But  we,  hard  toilers,  we  who  plan  and  weave 
Through  common  days  the  web  of  common  life, 

What  word,  alas  ! shall  teach  us  to  receive 
The  mystic  meaning  of  our  peace  and  strife  ? 

Whence  comes  our  symbol  \ Surely,  God  must  speak — 
No  less  than  He  can  make  us  heed  or  pause : 
Self-seekers  we,  too  busy  or  too  weak 
To  search  beyond  our  daily  lives  and  laws. 

From  things  occult  our  earth -turned  eyes  rebel  ; 

No  sound  of  Destiny  can  reach  our  ears  ; 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


571 


We  have  no  time  for  dreaming — Hark  ! a knell — 

A knell  at  midnight ! All  the  nation  hears  ! 

A second  grievous  throb  ! The  dreamers  wake — 
The  merchant’s  soul  forgets  his  goods  and  ships  ; 
The  weary  workmen  from  their  slumbers  break  ; 

The  women  raise  their  eyes  with  quivering  lips  ; 

The  miner  rests  upon  his  pick  to  hear ; 

The  printer’s  type  stops  midway  from  the  case  ; 
The  solemn  sound  has  reached  the  roysterer’s  ear, 
And  brought  the  shame  and  sorrow  to  his  face. 

Again  it  booms  ! O Mystic  Yeil,  upraise ! 

— Behold,  ’tis  lifted  ? On  the  darkness  drawn, 

A picture  lined  with  light ! The  people's  gaze, 

From  sea  to  sea,  beholds  it  till  the  dawn  ! 

A death-bed  scene — a sinking  sufferer  lies, 

Their  chosen  ruler,  crowned  with  love  and  pride ; 
Around,  his  counselors,  with  streaming  eyes  ; 

His  wife,  heart-broken,  kneeling  by  his  side  : 

Death’s  shadow  holds  her — it  will  pass  too  soon  ; 

She  weeps  in  silence — bitterest  of  tears  ; 

He  wanders  softly — Nature’s  kindest  boon  ; 

And  as  he  murmurs,  all  the  country  hears  : 

For  him  the  pain  is  past,  the  struggle  ends  ; 

His  cares  and  honors  fade — his  younger  life 
In  peaceful  Mentor  conies,  with  dear  old  friends  ; 
His  mother’s  arms  take  home  his  dear  young  wife. 

He  stands  among  the  students,  tall  and  strong, 

And  teaches  truths  republican  and  grand  ; 

He  moves — ah,  pitiful — he  sweeps  along 
O’er  fields  of  carnage  leading  his  command  ! 

He  speaks  to  crowded  faces — round  him  surge 
Thousands  and  millions  of  excited  men : 


572 


JOHN  BOYLE  o’  REILLY. 


He  hears  them  cheer — sees  some  vast  light  emerge— 
Is  borne  as  on  a tempest — then — ah,  then, 

The  fancies  fade,  the  fever’s  work  is  past ; 

A deepened  pang,  then  recollection’s  thrill ; 

He  feels  the  faithful  lips  that  kiss  their  last, 

His  heart  beats  once  in  answer,  and  is  still ! 

The  curtain  falls  : but  hushed,  as  if  afraid, 

The  people  wait,  tear-stained,  with  heaving  breast ; 
’Twill  rise  again,  they  know, when  he  is  laid 
With  Freedom,  in  the  Capitol,  at  rest. 


THE  TRIAL  OF  THE  GODS. 


“On  a regular  division  of  the  [Roman]  Senate,  Jupiter  was  con- 
demned and  degraded  by  the  sense  of  a very  large  majority.” — 
Gibbon's  Decline  and  Fall. 


NEVER  nobler  was  the  Senate, 

Never  grander  the  debate  : 

Rome’s  old  gods  are  on  their  trial 
By  the  judges  of  the  state  ! 

Torn  by  warring  creeds,  the  Fathers 
Urge  to-day  the  question  home— 

“ Whether  Jupiter  or  Jesus 
Shall  be  God  henceforth  in  Rome?  ” 

Lo,  the  scene  ! In  Jove’s  own  temple, 
As  of  old,  the  Fathers  meet ; 

Through  the  porch,  to  hear  the  speeches, 
Press  the  people  from  the  street. 
Pontiffs,  rich  with  purple  vesture, 

Pass  from  senate  chair  to  chair  ; 
Learned  augurs,  still  as  statues — 
Voiceless  statues,  too — are  there  ; 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 

Vestal  virgins,  white  with  terror, 

Mutely  asking — what  has  come  ? 

What  new  light  shall  turn  to  darkness 
Vesta’s  holy  fire  in  Rome  ? 

Answer,  Quindecemvirs  ! Surely, 

Of  this  wondrous  Nazarene 
Ye  must  know,  who  keep  the  secrets 
Of  the  prophet  Sibylline  ? 

Nay,  no  word  ! Here  stand  the  Flamens 
Have  ye  read  the  omens,  priests  ? 

Slain  the  victims,  white  and  sable, 
Scanned  the  entrails  of  the  beast  ? 

Priest  of  Pallas,  see  ! the  people 
Ask  for  oracles  to-day  : 

Silent ! Priests  of  Mars  and  Venus? 

Lo,  they  turn,  dumb -lipped,  away! 
Priest  of  Jove  ? FI  amen  dialis  ! 

Here  in  Jove’s  own  temple  meet 
In  debate  the  Roman  Senate, 

And  Jove’s  priest  with  timid  feet 
Stands  beyond  the  altar  railing  ! 

Gods,  I feel  ye  frown  above  ! 

In  the  shadow  of  Jove’s  altar 
Men  defy  the  might  of  Jove  ! 

Treason  riots  in  the  temple 
At  the  sacrilege  profound  : 

Virgins  mocked,  and  augurs  banished, 
And  divinities  discrowned  ! 

Hush  ! Old  Rome  herself  appeareth, 
Pleading  for  the  ancient  faith  : 

Urging  all  her  by-gone  glory — 

That  to  change  the  old  were  death. 
Rudely  answer  the  patricians, 

Scoffing  at  the  time-worn  snare  : 

Twice  a thousand  years  of  sacrifice 
Have  melted  into  air  ; 


574 


JOHN  BOYLE  o’kEILLY. 


Twice  a thousand  years  of  worship 
Have  bitterly  sufficed 
To  prove  there  is  no  Jupiter ! 

The  Senate  votes  for  Christ ! 


Not  aimless  is  the  story, 

The  moral  not  remote  : 

For  still  the  gods  are  questioned, 

And  still  the  Senates  vote. 

Men  sacrifice  to  Venus  ; 

To  Mars  are  victims  led ; 

And  Mercury  is  honored  still ; 

And  Bacchus  is  not  dead  ; — 

But  these  are  minor  deities 
That  cling  to  human  sight : 

Our  twilight  they — but  Bight  and  Wrong 
Are  clear  as  day  and  night. 

We  know  the  Truth : but  falsehood 
With  our  lives  is  so  inwove — 

Our  Senates  vote  down  Jesus 
As  old  Borne  degraded  Jove  ! 


DYING  IN  HABNESS 


ONLY  a fallen  horse,  stretched  out  there  on  the  road, 
Stretched  in  the  broken  shafts,  and  crushed  by  the 
heavy  load ; 

Only  a fallen  horse,  and  a circle  of  wondering  eyes 
Watching  the  ’frighted  teamster  goading  the  beast  to  rise. 

Hold  ! for  his  toil  is  over — no  more  labor  for  him  ; 

See  the  poor  neck  outstretched,  and  the  patient  eyes  grow 
dim ; 

See  on  the  friendly  stones  how  peacefully  rests  the  head — 
Thinking,  if  dumb  beasts  think,  how  good  it  is  to  be  dead  ; 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


575 


After  the  weary  journey,  how  restful  it  is  to  lie 

With  the  broken  shafts  and  the  cruel  load — waiting  only 
to  die. 

Watchers,  he  died  in  harness — died  in  the  shafts  and 
straps — 

Fell,  and  the  burden  killed  him : one  of  the  day’s  mis- 
haps— 

One  of  the  passing  wonders  marking  the  city  road — 

A toiler  dying  in  harness,  heedless  of  call  or  goad. 

Passers,  crowding  the  pathway,  staying  your  steps  awhile, 

What  is  the  symbol  ? Only  death — why  should  we  cease 
to  smile 

At  death  for  a beast  of  burden  ? On,  through  the  busy 
street 

That  is  ever  and  ever  echoing  the  tread  of  the  hurrying 
feet. 

What  was  the  sign  ? A symbol  to  touch  the  tireless  will  ? 

Does  He  who  taught  in  parables  speak  in  parables  still  ? 

The  seed  on  the  rock  is  wasted — on  heedless  hearts  of  men, 

That  gather  and  sow  and  grasp  and  lose — labor  and  sleep — 
and  then — 

Then  for  the  prize  ! — A crowd  in  the  street  of  ever-echo- 
ing tread — 

The  toiler,  crushed  by  the  heavy  load,  is  there  in  his 
harness — dead  ! 


DOLORES. 


IS  he  well  blessed  who  has  no  eyes  to  scan 
The  woeful  things  that  shadow  all  our  life  : 

The  latent  brute  behind  the  eyes  of  man, 

The  place  and  power  gained  and  stained  by  strife, 
The  weakly  victims  driven  to  the  wall, 

The  subtle  cruelties  that  meet  us  all 


576 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


Like  eyes  from  darksome  places  ? Blessed  is  he 
Who  such  sad  things  is  never  doomed  to  see  ! 

The  crust  of  common  life  is  worn  by  time, 

And  shines  deception,  as  a thin  veneer 
The  raw  plank  hides,  or  as  the  frozen  mere 
Holds  drowned  men  embedded  in  its  slime  ; 

The  ninety  eat  their  bread  of  death  and  crime, 

And  sin  and  sorrow  that  the  ten  may  thrive. 

O,  moaning  sea  of  life  ! the  few  who  dive 
Beneath  thy  waters,  faint  and  short  of  breath, 

Not  Dante-like,  who  cannot  swim  in  death 
And  view  its  secrets,  but  must  swiftly  rise, — 

They  meet  the  light  with  introverted  eyes, 

And  hands  that  clutch  a few  dim  mysteries  ! 

Our  life  a harp  is,  with  unnumbered  strings, 

And  tones  and  symphonies  ; but  our  poor  skill 
Some  shallow  notes  from  its  great  music  brings. 

We  know  it  there  ; but  vainly  wish  and  will. 

O,  things  symbolic  ! Things  that  mock  our  sense — 
Our  five-fold,  pitiable  sense — and  say 
A thousand  senses  could  not  show  one  day 
As  sight  infinite  sees  it ; fruitful  clay, 

And  budding  bough,  and  nature  great  with  child 
And  chill  with  doom  and  death — is  all  so  dense 
That  our  dull  thought  can  never  read  thy  words, 

Or  sweep  with  knowing  hand  thy  hidden  chords  ? 

Have  men  not  fallen  from  fair  heights,  once  trod 
By  nobler  minds,  who  saw  the  works  of  God, 

The  flowers  and  living  things,  still  undefiled, 

And  spoke  one  language  with  them  \ And  can  we, 
In  countless  generations,  each  more  pure 
Than  that  j>receding,  come  at  last  to  see 
Thy  symbols  full  of  meaning,  and  be  sure 
That  what  we  read  is  all  they  have  to  tell  ? 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


577 


THE  TREASURE  OF  ABRAM. 


i. 

IN'  the  old  Rabbinical  stories, 

So  old  they  might  well  be  true, — 
The  sacred  tales  of  the  Talmud, 

That  David  and  Solomon  knew, — 
There  is  one  of  the  Father  Abram, 

The  greatest  of  Heber’s  race, 

The  mustard-seed  of  Judea 
That  filled  the  holy  place. 

’Tis  said  that  the  fiery  heaven 
His  eye  was  first  to  read, 

Till  planets  were  gods  no  longer, 

But  helps  for  the  human  need  ; 

He  taught  his  simple  people 
The  scope  of  eternal  law 
That  swayed  at  once  the  fleecy  cloud 
And  the  circling  suns  they  saw. 

But  the  rude  Chaldean  peasants 
Uprose  against  the  seer, 

And  drave  him  forth — else  never  came 
This  Talmud  legend  here. 

With  Sarah  his  wife,  and  his  servants, 
Whom  he  ruled  with  potent  hand, 
The  Patriarch  planted  his  vineyards 
In  the  Canaanitish  land  ; 

With  his  wife — the  sterile,  but  lovely, 
The  fame  of  whose  beauty  grew 
Till  there  was  no  land  in  Asia 
But  tales  of  the  treasure  knew. 

In  his  lore  the  sage  lived — learning 
High  thought  from  the  starlit  skies  ; 
But  heedful,  too,  of  the  light  at  home, 
And  the  danger  of  wistful  eyes  : 


578 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 

Till  the  famine  fell  on  his  corn-fields, 

And  sent  him  forth  again, 

To  seek  for  a home  in  Egypt, — 

The  land  of  the  amorous  men. 

ii. 

Long  and  rich  is  the  caravan  that  halts  at  Egypt’s  gate, 

While  duty  full  the  stranger  pays  on  lowing  herd  and 
freight. 

Full  keen  the  scrutiny  of  those  who  note  the  heavy  dues  ; 

From  weanling  foal  to  cumbrous  wain,  no  chance  of  gain 
they  lose. 

But  fair  the  search — no  wealth  concealed  ; while  rich  the 
gifts  they  take 

From  Abram’s  hand,  till  care  has  ceased,  and  formal  quest 
they  make. 

They  pass  the  droves  and  laden  teams,  the  weighted  slaves 
are  past, 

And  Abram  doubles  still  the  gifts  ; one  wain — his  own — is 
last — 

It  goes  unsearched  ! Wise  Abram  smiles,  though  dearly 
stemmed  the  quest ; 

But  haps  will  come  from  causes  slight, 

And  hidden  things  upspring  to  light : 

A breeze  flings  wide  the  canvas  fold,  and  deep  within  the 
wain,  behold 

A brass-bound,  massive  chest ! 

“ Press  on  ! ” shouts  Abram.  “ Hold  ! ” they  cry  ; “ what 
treasure  hide  ye  here  ? ’ ’ 

The  word  is  stern — the  answer  brief  : ‘ ‘ Treasure  ! ’ tis 
household  gear  ; 

Plain  linen  cloth  and  flaxen  thread.”  The  scribes  deceived 
are  wroth ; 

“ Then  weigh  the  chest — its  price  shall  be  the  dues  on  linen 
cloth  1 ” 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES.  679 

The  face  of  Abram  seemed  to  grieve,  though  joy  was  in  his 
breast, 

As  carefully  his  servants  took  and  weighed  the  mighty 
chest. 

But  one  hath  watched  the  secret  smile;  he  cries — “This 
stranger  old 

Hath  used  deceit : no  cloth  is  here — this  chest  is  filled  with 
gold  ! ” 

“Hay,  nay,”  wise  Abram  says,  and  smiles,  though  now  he 
hides  dismay ; 

“ But  time  is  gold  : let  pass  the  chest — on  gold  the  dues  I 
pay  ! ” 

But  he  who  read  the  subtle  smile  detects  the  secret  fear  : 

“ Detain  the  chest ! nor  cloth  nor  gold,  but  precious  silk  is 
here  ! ” 

Grave  Father  Abram  stands  like  one  who  knoweth  well  the 
sword 

When  tyros  baffle  thrust  and  guard  ; slow  comes  the  heed- 
ful word  : 

“I  seek  no  lawless  gain— behold  ! my  trains  are  on  their 
way, 

Else  would  these  bands  my  servants  break,  and  show  the 
simple  goods  I take, 

That  silk  ye  call ; but,  for  time’s  sake,  on  silk  the  dues  I 
pay ! ” 

“He  pays  too  much!”  the  watcher  cries;  “this  man  is 
full  of  guile  ; 

From  cloth  to  gold  and  gold  to  silk,  to  save  a paltry  mile  ! 

This  graybeard  pay  full  silken  dues  on  cloth  for  slave-bred 
girls  ! 

Some  prize  is  here — he  shall  not  pass  until  he  pay  for 
pearls ! ” 

Stern  Abram  turned  a lurid  eye,  as  he  the  man  would  slay  ; 

An  instant,  rose  the  self-command ; but  thin  the  lip  and 
quick  the  hand, 


580  JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 

As  one  who  makes  a last  demand  : “ On  pearls  the  dues  I 
pay  !” 

“ He  cannot  pass  ! ” the  watcher  screamed,  as  to  the  chest 
he  clung  ; 

“He  shall  not  pass  ! Some  priceless  thing  he  hideth  here. 
Quick — workmen  bring  ! 

I seize  this  treasure  for  the  King  ! ” 

Old  Abram  stood  aghast ; it  seemed  the  knell  of  doom  had 
rung. 

hi. 

Red- eyed  with  greed  and  wonder, 

The  crowd  excited  stand  ; 

The  blows  are  rained  like  thunder 
On  brazen  bolt  and  band  ; 

They  burst  the  massive  hinges, 

They  raise  the  pondrous  lid, 

And  lo  ! the  peerless  treasure 
That  Father  Abram  hid  : 

In  pearls  and  silk  and  jewels  rare, 

Fit  for  a Pharaoh’s  strife  ; 

In  flashing  eyes  and  golden  hair — 

Sat  Abram’s  lovely  wife  ! 


THERE  IS  BLOOD  ON  THE  EARTH. 


THERE  is  blood  on  the  face  of  the  earth— 
It  reeks  through  the  years,  and  is  red  : 
Where  Truth  was  slaughtered  at  birth, 

And  the  veins  of  Liberty  bled. 

Lo  ! vain  is  the  hand  that  tries 
To  cover  the  crimson  stain : 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


581 


It  spreads  like  a plague,  and  cries 
Like  a soul  in  writhing  pain. 

It  wasteth  the  planet’s  flesh  ; 

It  calleth  on  breasts  of  stone : 

God  holdeth  His  wrath  in  a leash 
Till  the  hearts  of  men  atone. 

Blind,  like  the  creatures  of  time  • 

Cursed,  like  all  the  race, 

They  answer  : 4 4 The  blood  and  crime 
Belong  to  a sect  and  place  ! ” 

What  are  these  things  to  Heaven — 

Races  or  places  of  men  ? 

The  world  through  one  Christ  was  forgiven — 
Nor  question  of  races  then. 

The  wrong  of  to-day  shall  be  rued 
In  a thousand  coming  years  ; 

The  debt  must  be  paid  in  blood, 

The  interest,  in  tears. 

Shall  none  stand  up  for  right 
Whom  the  evil  passes  by  ? 

But  God  had  the  globe  in  sight, 

And  hearkens  the  weak  one’s  cry. 

Wherever  a principle  dies — 

Nay,  principles  never  die  ! 

But  wherever  a ruler  lies, 

And  a people  share  the  lie  ; 

Where  right  is  crushed  by  force, 

And  manhood  is  stricken  dead — 

There  dwelleth  the  ancient  curse, 

And  the  blood  on  the  earth  is  red  ! 


582 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’KEILLY. 


LIVING. 


TO  toil  all  day  and  lie  worn-ont  at  night ; 

To  rise  for  all  the  years  to  slave  and  sleep, 

And  breed  new  broods  to  do  no  other  thing 
In  toiling,  bearing,  breeding — life  is  this 
To  myriad  men,  too  base  for  man  or  brute. 

To  serve  for  common  duty,  while  the  brain 
Is  hot  with  high  desire  to  be  distinct ; 

To  fill  the  sand-grain  place  among  the  stones 
That  build  the  social  wall  in  million  sameness, 

Is  life  by  leave,  and  death  by  insignificance. 

To  live  the  morbid  years,  with  dripping  blood 
Of  sacrificial  labor  for  a Thought ; 

To  take  the  dearest  hope  and  lay  it  down 
Beneath  the  crushing  wheels  for  love  of  Freedom  ; 

To  bear  the  sordid  jeers  of  cant  and  trade, 

And  go  on  hewing  for  a far  ideal, — 

This  were  a life  worth  giving  to  a cause, 

If  cause  be  found  so  worth  a martyr  life. 

But  highest  life  of  man,  nor  work  nor  sacrifice, 

But  utter  seeing  of  the  things  that  be  ! 

To  pass  amid  the  hurrying  crowds,  and  watch 
The  hungry  race  for  things  of  vulgar  use  ; 

To  mark  the  growth  of  baser  lines  in  men ; 

To  note  the  bending  to  a servile  rule  ; 

To  know  the  natural  discord  called  disease 
That  rots  like  rust  the  blood  and  souls  of  men  ; 

To  test  the  wisdoms  and  philosophies  by  touch 
Of  that  which  is  immutable,  being  clear, 

The  beam  God  opens  to  the  poet’s  brain  ; 

To  see  with  eyes  of  pity  laboring  souls 
Strive  upward  to  the  Freedom  and  the  Truth, 

And  still  be  backward  dragged  by  fear  and  ignorance 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


583 


To  see  the  beauty  of  the  world,  and  hear 
The  rising  harmony  of  growth,  whose  shade 
Of  undertone  is  harmonized  decay  ; 

To  know  that  love  is  life — that  blood  is  one 
And  rushes  to  the  union — that  the  heart 
Is  like  a cup  athirst  for  wine  of  love  ; 

Who  sees  and  feels  this  meaning  utterly, 

The  wrong  of  law,  the  right  of  man,  the  natural  truth. 
Partaking  not  of  selfish  aims,  withholding  not 
The  word  that  strengthens  and  the  hand  that  helps  : 
Who  waits  and  sympathizes  with  the  pettiest  life, 
And  loves  all  things,  and  reaches  up  to  God 
With  thanks  and  blessing — He  alone  is  living. 


MACARIUS  THE  MONK, 


IN  the  old  days,  while  yet  the  Church  was  young, 
And  men  believed  that  praise  of  God  was  sung 
In  curbing  self  as  well  as  singing  psalms, 

There  lived  a monk,  Macarius  by  name, 

A holy  man,  to  whom  the  faithful  came 
With  hungry  hearts  to  hear  the  wondrous  Word. 

In  sight  of  gushing  springs  and  sheltering  palms, 

He  dwelt  within  the  desert : from  the  marsh 
He  drank  the  brackish  water,  and  his  food 
Was  dates  and  roots, — and  all  his  rule  was  harsh, 
For  pampered  flesh  in  those  days  warred  with  good. 
From  those  who  came  in  scores  a few  there  were 
Who  feared  the  devil  more  than  fast  and  prayer, 
And  these  remained  and  took  the  hermit’s  vow. 

A dozen  saints  there  grew  to  be  ; and  now 
Macarius,  happy,  lived  in  larger  care. 

He  taught  his  brethren  all  the  lore  he  knew, 

And  as  they  learned,  his  pious  rigors  grew. 

His  whole  intent  was  on  the  spirit’s  goal : 

He  taught  them  silence — words  disturb  the  soul ; 


584 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


He  warned  of  joys,  and  bade  them  pray  for  sorrow, 
And  be  prepared  to-day  for  death  to-morrow  ; 

To  know  that  human  life  alone  was  given 
To  prove  the  souls  of  those  who  merit  heaven  ; 

He  bade  the  twelve  in  all  things  be  as  brothers, 

And  die  to  self,  to  live  and  work  for  others. 

“ For  so,”  he  said,  “ we  save  our  love  and  labors, 
And  each  one  gives  his  own  and  takes  his  neighbor’s 

Thus  long  he  taught,  and  while  they  silent  heard, 

He  prayed  for  fruitful  soil  to  hold  the  Word. 

One  day,  beside  the  marsh  they  labored  long, — 

For  worldly  work  makes  sweeter  sacred  song, — 

And  when  the  cruel  sun  made  hot  the  sand, 

And  Afric’s  gnats  the  sweltering  face  and  hand 
Tormenting  stung,  a passing  traveler  stood 
And  watched  the  workers  by  the  reeking  flood. 
Macarius,  nigh  with  heat  and  toil  was  faint ; 

The  traveler  saw,  and  to  the  suffering  saint 
A bunch  of  luscious  grapes  in  pity  threw. 

Most  sweet  and  fresh  and  fair  they  were  to  view, 

A.  generous  cluster,  bursting-rich  with  wine, 
Macarius  longed  to  taste.  “ The  fruit  is  mine,” 

He  said,  and  sighed  ; “ but  I,  who  daily  teach, 

Feel  now  the  bond  to  practice  as  I preach.” 

He  gave  the  cluster  to  the  nearest  one, 

And  with  his  heavy  toil  went  patient  on. 

As  one  athirst  will  greet  a flowing  brim. 

The  tempting  fruit  made  moist  the  mouth  of  him 
Who  took  the  gift ; but  in  the  yearning  eye 
Hose  brighter  light : to  one  whose  lip  was  dry 
He  gave  the  grapes,  and  bent  him  to  his  spade. 

And  he  who  took,  unknown  to  any  other, 

The  sweet  refreshment  handed  to  a brother. 

And  so,  from  each  to  each,  till  round  was  made 
The  circuit  wholly — when  the  grapes  at  last, 
Untouched  and  tempting,  to  Macarius  passed. 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


585 


“ Now  God  be  thanked  ! ” he  cried,  and  ceased  his  toil ; 
“ The  seed  was  good,  but  better  was  the  soil. 

My  brothers,  join  with  me  to  bless  the  day.” 

But,  ere  they  knelt,  he  threw  the  grapes  away. 


THE  UNHAPPY  ONE. 


“TIE  is  false  to  the  heart!”  she  said,  stern-lipped; 

-LI  “ he  is  all  untruth  ; 

He  promises  fair  as  a tree  in  blossom,  and  then 
The  fruit  is  rotten  ere  ripe.  Tears,  prayers  and  youth, 

All  withered  and  wasted  ! and  still — I love  this  falsest  of 
men ! ” 


Comfort?  There  is  no  comfort  when  the  soul  sees  pain 
like  a sun  : 

It  is  better  to  stare  at  the  blinding  truth  : if  it  blind,  one 
woe  is  done. 

We  cling  to  a coward  hope,  when  hope  has  the  seed  of  the 
pain  : 

If  we  tear  out  the  roots  of  the  grief,  it  will  never  torment 
again. 

Ay,  even  if  part  of  our  life  is  lost,  and  the  deep-laid  nerves 

That  carry  all  joy  to  the  heart  are  wounded  or  killed  by 
the  knife ; 

When  a gangrene  sinks  to  the  bone,  it  is  only  half-death 
that  serves ; 

And  a life  with  a cureless  pain  is  only  half  a life. 

But  why  unhealed  must  the  spirit  endure  ? There  are 
drugs  for  the  body’s  dole  ; 

Have  we  wholly  lived  for  the  lower  life  ? Is  there  never  a 
balm  for  the  soul  ? 

O Night,  cry  out  for  the  healer  of  woe,  for  the  priest- 
physician  cry, 

With  the  pouring  oil  for  the  bleeding  grief,  for  the  life 
that  may  not  die  I 


586 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’ REILLY. 


“ He  is  false  to  the  heart ! ” she  moaned  ; “ and  I love  him 
and  cannot  hate  ! ” 

Then  bitterly,  fiercely  — “ What  have  I done,  my  God,  for 
such  a fate?” 

“ Poor  heart ! ” said  the  Teacher  ; “ for  thee  and  thy  sor- 
row the  daily  parables  speak. 

Thy  grief,  that  is  dark,  illumes  for  me  a sign  that  was  dim 
and  weak. 

In  the  heart  of  my  garden  I planted  a tree  — I had  chosen 
the  noblest  shoot : 

It  was  sheltered  and  tended,  and  hope  reached  out  for  the 
future’s  precious  fruit. 

The  years  of  its  youth  flew  past,  and  I looked  on  a spread- 
ing tree 

All  gloried  with  maiden  blossoms,  that  smiled  their  prom- 
ise to  me. 

I lingered  to  gaze  on  their  color  and  shape — I knew  I had 
chosen  well ; 

And  I smiled  at  the  death  that  was  promise  of  life  as  the 
beautiful  petals  fell. 

But  the  joy  was  chilled,  though  the  lip  laughed  on,  by 
the  withered  proof  to  the  eye  : 

The  blossoms  had  shielded  no  tender  bud,  but  cradled  a 
barren  lie. 

Before  me  it  lay,  the  mystery — the  asking,  the  promise, 
the  stone  ; 

The  tree  that  should  give  good  fruit  was  bare — the  cause 
unseen,  unknown ! 

“ But  I said  : ‘ Next  year  it  shall  bourgeon,  my  part  shall 
be  faithfully  done ; 

My  love  shall  be  doubled — I trust  my  tree  for  its  beautiful 
strength  alone.’ 

But  tenderness  failed,  and  loving  care,  and  the  chalice  of 
faith  was  dried 

When  the  next  spring  blossoms  had  spoken  their  promise — 
smiled  at  the  sun  and  lied ; 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES.  587 

The  heart  of  the  petals  was  withered  to  dust.  Then,  for 
duty,  I trusted  again  ; 

For  who  should  stand  if  God  were  to  frown  on  the  twice- 
told  failures  of  men  ? 

Unloving  I tended,  with  care  increased,  but  never  a song 
or  smile ; 

For  duty  is  love  that  is  dead  but  is  kept  from  the  grave  for 
a while. 

The  third  year  came,  with  the  sweet  young  leaves,  and  I 
could  not  fear  or  doubt ; 

But  the  petals  smiled  at  the  sun  and  lied, — and  the  curse 
in  my  blood  leaped  out ! 

‘This  corpse/  I cried,  ‘that  has  cumbered  the  earth,  let 
it  hence  to  the  waste  be  torn  ! ’ 

That  moment  of  wrath  beheld  its  death — while  to  me  was  a 
life-truth  born : 

The  straight  young  trunk  at  my  feet  lay  prone  ; and  I 
bent  to  scan  the  core, 

And  there  read  the  pitiful  secret  the  noble  sapling  bore. 

Through  the  heart  of  the  pith,  in  its  softest  youth,  it  had 
bored  its  secret  way, 

A gnawing  worm,  a hideous  grief, — and  the  life  it  had 
tortured  lay 

Accursed  and  lost  for  the  cruel  devil  that  nestled  its  breast 
within. 

Ah,  me,  poor  heart ! had  I known  in  time,  I had  cut  out 
the  clinging  sin, 

And  saved  the  life  that  was  all  as  good  and  as  noble  as  it 
seemed ! ” 

He  ceased,  and  she  rose,  the  unresigned,  as  one  who  had 
slept  and  dreamed ; 

Her  face  was  radiant  with  insight:  “It  is  true!  it  is 
true!”  she  said ; 

“And  my  love  shall  not  die,  like  your  beautiful  tree,  till 
the  hidden  pain  is  dead  ! ” 


588 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’ REILLY. 


DESTINY. 


SOLDIER,  why  do  you  shrink  from  the  hiss  of  the  hun- 
gry lead  ? 

The  bullet  that  whizzed  is  past ; the  approaching  ball  is 
dumb. 

Stand  straight ! you  cannot  shrink  from  Fate  : let  it  come ! 
A comrade  in  front  may  hear  it  whiz — when  you  are  dead. 


A SONG  FOR  THE  SOLDIERS. 


"TTTHAT  song  is  best  for  the  soldiers  ? 

V V Take  no  heed  of  the  words,  nor  choose  you  the  style 
of  the  story ; 

Let  it  burst  out  from  the  heart  like  a spring  from  the  womb 
of  a mountain, 

Natural,  clear,  resistless,  leaping  its  way  to  the  levels  ; 

Whether  of  love  or  hate  or  war  or  the  pathos  and  pain  of 
affliction  ; 

Whether  of  manly  pluck  in  the  perilous  hour,  or  that 
which  is  higher, 

And  highest  of  all,  the  slowly  bleeding  sacrifice, 

The  giving  of  life  and  its  joys  for  the  sake  of  men  and  free- 
dom ; — 

Any  song  for  the  soldier  that  will  harmonize  with  the  life- 
throbs  ; 

For  he  has  laved  in  the  mystical  sea  by  which  men  are  one  ; 

His  pulse  has  thrilled  into  blinding  tune  with  the  vaster 
anthems 

Which  God  plays  on  the  battle-fields  when  he  sweeps  the 
strings  of  nations, 

And  the  song  of  the  earth-planet  bursts  on  the  silent 
spheres, 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES.  589 

Shot  through  like  the  cloud  of  Etna  with  flames  of  heroic 
devotion, 

And  shaded  with  quivering  lines  from  the  mourning  of 
women  and  children  l 

Here  is  a song  for  the  soldiers — a song  of  the  Cheyenne 
Indians, 

Of  men  with  soldierly  hearts  who  walked  with  Death  as  a 
comrade. 

Hush ! Let  the  present  fade  ; let  the  distance  die  ; let  the 
last  year  stand  : 

We  are  far  to  the  West,  in  Montana,  on  the  desolate  plains 
of  Montana  ; 

We  ride  with  the  cavalry  troopers  on  the  bloody  trail  of 
the  Cheyennes, 

Forty  braves  of  the  tribe  who  have  leaped  from  the  reser- 
vation 

Down  on  the  mining  camps  in  their  desecrated  valleys, 

Down  to  their  fathers’  graves  and  the  hunting-ground  of 
their  people. 

Chilled  with  the  doom  of  Death  they  gaze  on  the  white 
men’s  changes : 

Ruthless  the  brutal  force  that  has  crushed  their  homes  and 
their  manhood, 

And  ruthless  the  hearts  of  the  Cheyenne  braves  as  they 
swoop  on  the  camps  of  the  miners ! 

Back  to  the  hills  they  dash,  with  reeking  trophies  around 
them  : 

But  swift  on  their  trail  the  cavalry  ride,  and  their  trumpets 

Break  on  the  ears  of  the  braves  with  a threat  of  oncoming 
vengeance. 

At  last  they  are  bayed  and  barred — corraled  in  a straight- 
walled  valley, — 

The  Indians  back  to  the  cliffs  with  the  shattered  rocks  as  a 
breastwork, 

The  soldiers  in  lined  stockades  across  the  mouth  of  the 
valley. 


590 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


Hungrily  hiss  the  bullets,  not  wasted  in  random  tiring, 

But  every  shot  for  a mark,  — thrice  their  number  of  soldiers 

Baking  the  Cheyenne  rocks  with  a pitiless  rain  of  missiles, 

One  to  three  in  the  tiring,  but  every  Cheyenne  bullet 

Tumbled  a reckless  trooper  behind  his  fence  in  the  stock- 
ade. 

“God!  they  are  brave!”  cried  the  captain.  “ Seven 
hours  we’ve  held  them, 

Three,  ay,  five  to  one,  if  you  count  their  dead  and  their 
wounded  : 

Damn  them  ! why  don’t  they  yield  for  the  sake  of  their 
lives  and  their  wounded  ? ” 

But  never  a sign  but  flame  and  the  hiss  of  the  leaden  defi- 
ance 

Comes  from  the  Cheyenne  braves,  though  their  firing  slack- 
ens in  vigor 

To  grow  in  fatal  precision — grim  as  the  cliff  above  them 

They  fight  their  fight,  and  the  valley  is  lined  with  death 
from  their  rifles. 

Cried  the  captain,  “Men,  we  must  charge  ! ” and  he  grieves 
for  his  boys  and  their  foemen  ; 

“ But  show  them  a sign  of  quarter  ; ” and  he  swings  them 
a flag  to  tell  them 

That  his  side  is  willing  to  parley  : the  Indians  riddle  the 
ensign, 

And  the  captain  groans  in  his  heart  as  he  gives  the  order 
for  charging. 

Terrible  getting  ready  of  men  who  prepare  for  a death- 
fight  : — 

Scabbards  are  thrown  aside  and  belts  unstrapped  for  the 
striking, 

Ominous  outward  signs  of  the  deadlier  inner  preparing 

When  the  soul  flings  danger  aside  and  the  human  heart  its 
mercy. 

Out  from  the  fatal  earthworks,  their  eyes  like  fire  in  a 
cavern, 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES.  591 

With  naked  blades  the  troopers,  and  nerves  wire-strung 
for  the  onset, 

When  suddenly,  up  from  the  rocks,  a sign  at  last  from 
the  Cheyennes ! 

Two  tall  braves  on  the  rocks — “ Re-form  ! ” brays  the 
cavalry  trumpet, 

And  grimly  the  soldiers  return,  reluctantly  leaving  the 
conflict. 

Still  on  the  rocks  two  forms  of  bronze,  as  if  prepared  for 
the  stormers, 

Then  down  to  the  field,  and  behold,  they  dash  toward  the 
wondering  troopers ! 

The  soldiers  stare  at  the  charge,  but  no  man  laughs  at  the 
foemen, 

Instead  of  a sneer  a tremor  at  many  a mouth  in  sorrow. 

On  they  come  to  their  death,  and,  standing  at  fifty  paces, 

They  fire  in  the  face  of  the  squadron,  and  dash  with  their 
knives  to  the  death-grip  ! 

Fifty  rifles  give  flame,  and  the  breasts  of  the  heroes  are 
shattered  ; 

But  falling,  they  plunge  toward  the  fight,  and  their  knives 
sink  deep  in  the  meadow  ! 

“ On  to  the  rocks  ! ” and  the  soldiers  have  done  with  their 
feelings  of  mercy — 

But  never  a foe  to  meet  them  nor  a shot  from  the  deadly 
barrier. 

First  on  the  rocks  the  captain,  with  a cheer  that  died  as  he 
gave  it, — 

A cheer  that  was  half  a groan  and  a cry  of  admiration. 

Awed  stood  the  troopers  who  followed,  and  lowered  their 
swords  with  their  leader, 

Homage  of  brave  to  the  brave,  saluting  with  souls  and 
weapons  ; 

There  at  their  feet  lay  the  foemen — every  man  dead  on  his 
rifle — 

The  two  who  had  charged  the  troops  were  the  last  alive  of 
the  Cheyennes  ! 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


5 92 


AN  OLD  VAGABOND. 


HE  was  old  and  alone,  and  he  sat  on  a stone  to  rest  for 
awhile  from  the  road  ; 

His  beard  was  white,  and  his  eye  was  bright,  and  his 
wrinkles  overflowed 

With  a mild  content  at  the  way  life  went ; and  I closed 
the  book  on  my  knee  : 

“ I will  venture  a look  in  this  living  book,”  I thought,  as 
he  greeted  me. 

And  I said  : “ My  friend,  have  you  time  to  spend  to  tell 
me  what  makes  you  glad  ? ” 

“Oh,  ay,  my  lad,”  with  a smile  ; “ I’m  glad  that  I’m  old, 
yet  am  never  sad  ! ’ ’ 

“But  why  ? ” said  I ; and  his  merry  eye  made  answer  as 
much  as  his  tongue  ; 

“Because,”  said  he,  “I  am  poor  and  free  who  was  rich 
and  a slave  when  young. 

There  is  naught  but  age  can  allay  the  rage  of  the  passions 
that  rule  men’s  lives  ; 

And  a man  to  be  free  must  a poor  man  be,  for  unhappy  is 
he  who  thrives  : 

He  fears  for  his  ventures,  his  rents  and  debentures,  his 
crops,  and  his  son,  and  his  wife  ; 

His  dignity’s  slighted  when  he’s  not  invited  ; he  fears  every 
day  of  his  life. 

But  the  man  who  is  poor,  and  by  age  has  grown  sure  that 
there  are  no  surprises  in  years, 

Who  knows  that  to  have  is  no  joy,  nor  to  save,  and  who 
opens  his  eyes  and  his  ears 

To  the  world  as  it  is,  and  the  part  of  it  his,  and  who  says  : 
They  are  happy,  these  birds, 

Yet  they  live  day  by  day  in  improvident  way — improvi- 
dent ? What  were  the  words 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES.  593 

Of  the  Teacher  who  taught  that  the  field-lilies  brought  the 
lesson  of  life  to  a man  ? 

Can  we  better  the  thing  that  is  schoolless,  or  sing  more  of 
love  than  the  nightingale  can  ? 

See  that  rabbit — what  feature  in  that  pretty  creature  needs 
science  or  culture  or  care  ? 

Send  this  dog  to  a college  and  stuff  him  with  knowledge, 
will  it  add  to  the  warmth  of  his  hair? 

Why  should  mankind,  apart,  turn  from  Nature  to  Art, 
and  declare  the  exchange  better-planned  ? 

I prefer  to  trust  God  for  my  living  than  plod  for  my  bread 
at  a master’s  hand, 

A man’s  higher  being  is  knowing  and  seeing,  not  having 
and  toiling  for  more  ; 

In  the  senses  and  soul  is  the  joy  of  control,  not  in  pride  or 
luxurious  store. 

Yet  my  needs  are  the  same  as  the  kingling’s  whose  name  is 
a terror  to  thousands some  bread, 

Some  water  and  milk, — I can  do  without  silk, — some  wool, 
and  a roof  for  my  head. 

What  more  is  possest  that  will  stand  the  grim  test  of 
death’s  verdict  ? What  riches  remain 

To  give  joy  at  the  last,  all  the  vanities  past  ? — Ay,  ay, 
that’s  the  word — they  are  vain 

And  vexatious  of  spirit  to  all  who  inherit  belief  in  the  world 
and  its  ways. 

And  so,  old  and  alone,  sitting  here  on  a stone,  I smile  with 
the  birds  at  the  days.” 

• 

And  I thanked  him,  and  went  to  my  study,  head  bent, 
where  I laid  down  my  book  on  its  shelf ; 

And  that  day  all  the  page  that  I read  was  my  age,  and  my 
wants,  and  my  joys,  and  myself. 


594 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


THE  STATUES  IN  THE  BLOCK. 


“ T OYE  is  the  secret  of  the  world,’ ’ he  said  ; 

-Li  ‘ 4 The  cup  we  drain  and  still  desire  to  drink. 
The  loadstone  hungers  for  the  steel ; the  steel, 

Inert  amid  a million  stones,  responds  to  this. 

So  yearn  and  answer  hearts  that  truly  love  : 

Once  touch  their  life-spring,  it  vibrates  to  death  ; 
And  twain  athrill  as  one  are  nature- wed.” 

But  silent  stood  the  three  who  heard,  nor  smiled 
Nor  looked  agreement.  Strangers  these  who  stood 
Within  a Roman  studio — still  young, 

But  sobered  each  with  that  which  follows  joy 
At  life’s  fresh  forenoon,  and  the  eye  of  each 
Held  deep  within  a restless  eager  light, 

As  gleams  a diamond  in  a darkened  room 
With  radiance  hoarded  from  the  vanished  sun. 

“ The  meteor-stone  is  dense  and  dark  in  space, 

But  bursts  in  flame  when  through  the  air  it  rushes  ; 
And  our  dull  life  is  like  an  aerolite 
That  leaps  to  Are  within  the  sphere  of  love.” 
Unchecked  his  mood  ran  on  : “ Sweet  amorous  hours 
That  lie  in  years  as  isles  in  tropic  seas, 

You  spring  to  view  as  Art  is  born  of  Love, 

And  shape  rich  beauties  in  this  marble  block ! ” 

Before  them  rose  within  the  shaded  light 
A tall  and  shapely  mass  of  Alp-wliite  crystal 
Fresh  from  the  heart  of  a Carrara  quarry. 

“ Opaque  to  you  this  marble  ; but  to  me, 

Whose  eyes  the  chrism  of  passion  has  anointed, 

The  stone  is  pregnant  with  a life  of  love. 

Within  this  monolith  there  lives  a form 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


595 


Which  I can  see  and  would  reveal  to  you, 

Could  hand  and  chisel  swiftly  follow  sight. 

From  brow  to  foot  her  lissome  form  stands  forth — 

The  ripe  lips  smiling  reached  ; with  nestling  press, 

As  round  the  sailor  frozen  in  the  berg 
The  clear  ice  closes  on  the  still  dead  face, 

The  marble,  grown  translucent,  touches  soft 
Each  comely  feature — rippled  hair,  and  chin, 

And  lily  Sweep  of  bust  and  hip  and  limb — 

Ah,  sweet  mouth  pouting  for  the  lips  that  cling, 

And  white  arms  raised  all  quivering  to  the  clasp — 

Ah,  rich  throat  made  for  burning  lover’s  kiss, 

And  reckless  bodice  open  to  the  swell, 

And  deep  eyes  soft  with  love’s  suffusion — Love  ! 

O Love  ! still  living,  memory  and  hope, 

Beyond  all  sweets  thy  bosom,  breath,  and  lips — 

My  jewel  and  the  jewel  of  the  world  ! ” 

They  stood  in  silence,  each  one  rapt  and  still, 

As  if  the  lovely  form  were  theirs  as  his, 

Till  one  began — harsh  voice  and  clouded  face — 

With  other  presence  in  his  eye — and  said  : 

“ Opaque  to  me  with  such  a glow-worm  ray 

As  Love’s  torch  flings — but,  mark,  the  dense  rock  melts 

When  from  my  soul  on  fire  the  fiercer  beam, 

The  mighty  calcium-glare  of  hate  leaps  out 
And  eats  the  circumambient  marble — See  ! 

Laid  bare  as  corpse  to  keen  anatomist, 

With  every  sinuous  muscle  picked  with  shadow, 

And  every  feature  tense  with  livid  passion, 

And  all  the  frame  aheave  with  sanguine  throbs — 

The  ecstasy  of  agonized  Revenge  ! 

0 stone,  reveal  it — how  my  parting  kiss 
Was  wet  upon  her  mouth  when  other  lips 
Drank  deep  the  cursed  fountain  ; how  the  coin 

1 hung  with  rapture  ’tween  her  glowing  breasts, 

And  fondly  thought  if  I should  die  and  she 
Should  live  till  age  had  blanched  her  hair  and  flesh, 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


596 

This  golden  medal’s  touch  would  still  have  power 
To  light  the  love-fire  in  the  faded  eyes 
And  swell  the  shriveled  breast  to  maiden  roundness — 
This  thought  I nursed — 0 Stygian  abyss  ! — 

Away  thy  picture  of  the  rippled  hair  ! 

Her  hair  was  rippled  and  her  eyes  were  deep, 

Her  breasts  and  limbs  were  white  and  lily -curved, 

But  all  the  woman,  soul  and  wondrous  flesh, 

Was  poison-steeped  and  veined  with  vicious  fire  ; 

And  I,  blind  fool  who  trusted,  was  but  one 
Who  swooned  with  love  beside  her — But  I drank 
The  wine  she  filled,  and  made  her  eat  the  dregs— 

I drenched  her  honey  with  my  sea  of  gall. 

I see  her  in  the  marble  where  she  shrinks 
In  shuddered  fear,  as  if  my  face  were  fire— 

Her  cowering  shadow  making  whiter  still 
The  face  of  him  that  writhes  beside  her  feet. 

I see  him  breathe,  the  last  deep  breath,  and  turn 
His  eyes  upon  me  horror-filled — his  hand, 

Still  hot  with  wanton  dalliance,  clutched  hard 
Across  the  burning  murder  in  his  side — 

And  now  he  sinks  still  glaring — And  my  heart 
Is  there  between  them,  petrified,  O God  ! 

And  pierced  by  that  red  blow  that  struck  their  guilt. 

0 balm  and  torture  ! he  must  hate  who  loves, 

And  bleed  who  strikes  to  see  thy  face,  Revenge ! ” 

Grown  deep  the  silence  for  the  words  that  died, 

And  paler  still  the  marble  for  its  grief. 

“ Ah,  myrrh  and  honey  ! ” spake  a third,  whose  eyes 
Were  deep  with  sorrow  for  the  woe  ; “ blind  hands 
That  grope  for  flowers  and  pierce  the  flesh  with  thorns  1 
All  love  of  woman  still  may  turn  to  hate, 

As  wine  to  bitterness,  as  noon  to  night. 

But  sweeter  far  and  deeper  than  the  love 
Of  flesh  for  flesh,  is  the  strong  bond  of  hearts 
For  suffering  Motherland — to  make  her  free  ! 

Love’s  joy  is  short,  and  Hate’s  black  triumph  bitter, 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 

And  loves  and  hates  are  selfish — save  for  thee, 

0 chained  and  weeping  at  thy  pillar’s  foot, 

Thy  white  flesh  eaten  by  accursed  bands. 

No  love  but  thine  can  satisfy  the  heart, 

For  love  of  thee  holds  in  it  hate  of  wrong, 

And  shapes  the  hope  that  molds  humanity  ! 

Not  mine  your  passions,  yet  I weigh  them  well— 
Who  loves  a greater  sinks  all  lesser  love( 

Who  hates  a tyrant  loses  lesser  hate. 

My  Land  ! I see  thee  in  the  marble,  bowed 
Before  thy  tyrant,  bound  at  foot  and  wrist — 

Thy  garments  rent — thy  wounded  shoulder  bare — 
Thy  chained  hand  raised  to  ward  the  cruel  blow — 
My  poor  love  round  thee  scarf -like,  weak  to  hide 
And  powerless  to  shield  thee — but  a boy 

1 wound  it  round  thee,  dearest,  and  a man 

I drew  it  close  and  kissed  thee — Mother,  wife ! 

For  thee  the  past  and  future  days  ; for  thee 
The  will  to  trample  wrong  and  strike  for  slaves  ; 
For  thee  the  hope  that  ere  mine  arm  be  weak 
And  ere  my  heart  be  dry  may  close  the  strife 
In  which  thy  colors  shall  be  borne  through  fire, 
And  all  thy  griefs  washed  out  in  manly  blood — 
And  I shall  see  thee  crowned  and  bound  with  Jove, 
Thy  strong  sons  round  thee  guarding  thee.  0 star 
That  lightens  desolation,  o’er  her  beam, 

Nor  let  the  shadow  of  the  pillar  sink 

Too  deep  within  her,  till  the  dawn  is  red 

Of  that  white  noon  when  men  shall  call  her  Queen ! 

The  deep  voice  quivering  with  affection  ceased, 

And  silent  each  they  saw  within  the  stone 
The  captive  nation  and  the  mother’s  woe. 

Yet  while  their  hearts  the  fine  emotion  warmed, 

Ere  ebbed  the  deep-pulsed  throb  of  brotherhood, 
The  last  one  spoke,  and  held  the  wave  at  full : — 

“ Yea,  brothers,  his  the  noblest  for  its  grief  ; 

Your  love  was  loss— but  his  was  sacrifice. 


598 


JOHN  BOYLE  o’rEILJ/Y. 


Your  light  was  sunlight,  for  the  shallow  sense 
That  bends  the  eyes  on  earth  and  thinks  it  sees  ; 

His  love  was  nightlike,when  we  see  the  stars, 

Forgetting  petty  things  around  our  feet. 

Yet  here,  too,  find  his  weakness,  for  his  hope 
Is  still  for  sunlight,  and  your  shallow  sense, 

And  golden  crowns  and  queendom  for  his  love. 

I,  too,  within  the  stone  behold  a statue, 

Far  less  than  yours,  but  greater,  for  I know 
My  symbol  a beginning,  not  an  end. 

O,  Grief,  with  Hope  ! The  marble  fades — behold  ! 

The  little  hands  still  crossed — a child  in  death. 

My  link  with  love — my  dying  gift  from  her 
Whose  last  look  smiled  on  both,  when  I was  left 
A loveless  man,  save  this  poor  gift,  alone. 

My  heart  had  wound  its  tendrils  round  one  life, 

But  when  my  joy  was  deepest,  she  was  stricken, 

And  I was  powerless  to  save.  My  prayers 
And  piteous  cries  were  flung  against  my  face — 

My  life  was  blighted  by  the  curse  of  Heaven  ! 

But  from  the  depths  her  love  returned  to  soothe  : 

Her  dear  hand  reached  from  death  and  placed  her  child 
Where  she  had  lived,  within  the  riven  tendrils, 

And  firmly  these  closed  round  their  second  treasure. 

And  she,  my  new  love,  in  her  infant  hold 
Took  every  heart-string  as  her  mother’ s gift, 

And  touched  such  tender  fine-strung  chords,  and  played 
Such  music  in  my  heart  as  filled  my  life 
With  trembling  joy  and  fondness  for  the  child. 

I feared  to  be  so  blest — her  baby  cheek, 

When  laid  on  mine,  was  Heaven’ s sweetest  touch  ; 

And  when  she  looked  me  in  the  eyes,  I saw 
Her  mother  look  at  me  from  deep  within, 

And  bless  me  for  the  love  I gave  and  won. 

Yet,  when  I loved  her  most  she,  too,  was  doomed : 

I saw  it  come  upon  her  like  a shadow, 

And  watched  the  change,  appalled  at  first,  but  set 
To  ward  the  danger  from  my  darling.  She, 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


599 


As  day  by  day  still  failing,  grew  so  tender 
And  crept  so  often  to  my  heart,  as  if, 

Though  but  a babe  who  could  not  speak  a word, 

She  knew  full  well  my  life  would  soon  be  shattered. 

But  all  my  love  was  fruitless,  and  my  prayers 
To  leave  her  with  me  beat  the  gates  in  vain. 

I thought  my  love  must  hold  her,  till  at  last 

I held  the  tiny  body  like  a leaf 

All  day  and  night  within  my  arms  ; and  so, 

Close  nestled  to  my  yearning  heart,  Death  passed, 

As  merciless  as  God,  but  left  that  look 
Of  two  dead  loves,  as  if  Death’ s self  knew  pity. 

And  I was  lost  heart- withered  in  a night 
That  knew  no  star  and  held  no  ray  of  hope, 

And  heard  no  word  but  my  despairing  curse 
With  lifted  hands,  at  life  and  Him  who  gave  it! 

My  graves  were  all.  I had — the  little  mound 

Where  my  hands  laid  her,  with  the  sweet  young  grass — 

The  tiny  hill  that,  grew  until  the  sun 

Was  hid  behind  it,  and  I sat  below 

And  gnawed  my  heart  in  grief  within  its  shadow. 

So  one  day  bowed  in  woe  beside  the  grave 
The  weight  grew  deadly,  and  I called  aloud 
That  God  should  witness  to  my  life  in  ruin. 

And  God’s  word  reached  me  through  the  little  grave 
Where  in  the  grass  my  face  was  buried  weeping — 

His  peace  came  through  it  like  a pent-up  breath 
That  rolled  from  some  great  world  whose  gates  had  oped, 
And  blew  upon  my  wild  and  hardened  heart, 

And  swept  my  woe  before  it  like  a leaf. 

My  dried  heart  drank  the  meaning  of  the  peace  : 

True  love  shall  trust,  and  selfish  love  must  die, 

For  trust  is  peace,  and  self  is  full  of  pain  ; 

Arise,  and  heal  thy  brother’ s grief  ; his  tears 
Shall  wash  thy  love  and  it  will  five  again. 

0 little  grave,  I thought  ’twas  love  had  died, 

But  in  thy  bosom  only  lies  my  sorrow. 

1 see  my  darling  in  the  marble  now— 


600 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 

My  wasted  leaf — lier  kind  eyes  smiling  fondly, 

And  through  her  eyes  I see  the  love  beyond, 

The  biding  light  that  moves  not — and  I know 
That  when  God  gives  to  us  the  clearest  sight 
He  does  not  touch  our  eyes  with  Love,  but  Sorrow.” 


THE  THREE  QUEENS. 


Read  at  the  annual  meeting  of  Phi  Beta  Kappa,  Dartmouth  College,  1882. 


IN  the  far  time  of  Earth’s  sweet  maiden  beauty, 
When  Morning  hung  with  rapture  on  her  breast ; 
When  every  sentient  life  paid  love  for  duty, 

And  every  law  was  Nature’s  own  behest ; 

When  reason  ruled  as  subtle  instinct  taught  her ; 

When  joys  were  pure  and  sin  and  shame  unseen  ; 
Then  God  sent  down  His  messenger  and  daughter, 
His  kiss  upon  her  lips,  to  reign  as  Queen ! 

Her  name  was  Liberty  ! Earth  lay  before  her, 

And  throbbed  unconscious  fealty  and  truth  ; 
Morning  and  night  men  hastened  to  adore  her, 

And  from  her  eyes  Peace  drew  perennial  youth. 
Her  hair  was  golden  as  the  stars  of  heaven  ; 

Her  face  was  radiant  with  the  kiss  of  Jove  ; 

Her  form  was  lovelier  than  the  sun  at  even  ; 

Death  paled  before  her : Life  was  one  with  Love. 

0 time  traditioned  ! ere  thy  dismal  sequel, 

Men  owned  the  world,  and  every  man  was  free  ; 
The  lowest  life  was  noble  ; all  were  equal 
In  needs  and  creeds, — their  birthright  Liberty. 
Possession  had  no  power  of  caste,  nor  learning ; 

He  was  not  great  who  owned  a shining  stone  ; 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


601 


No  seer  was  needed  for  the  truth’s  discerning, 

Nor  king  nor  code  to  teach  the  world  its  own. 

Distinction  lived,  but  gave  no  power  o’er  others, 

As  flowers  have  no  dominion  each  o’er  each  ; 

What  men  could  do  they  did  among  their  brothers 
By  skill  of  hand  or  gift  of  song  or  speech. 

Dear  Golden  Age  ! that  like  a deathless  spirit 
Fills  our  traditions  with  a light  sublime  ; 

Like  wheat  from  Egypt’s  tombs  our  souls  inherit 
Sweet  dreams  of  freedom  from  thy  vanished  time. 

O Goddess  Liberty  ! thy  sun  was  cleaving 
Its  golden  path  across  a perfect  sky, 

When  lo  ! a cloud,  from  night  below  upheaving, 

And  underneath  a shadow  and  a cry ! 

In  lurid  darkness  spread  the  thing  of  error, 

Swift  ran  the  shudder  and  the  fear  beneath  ; 

Till  o’er  the  Queen’s  face  passed  the  voiceless  terror, 

And  Love  grew  pale  to  see  the  joy  of  Death. 

Men  stood  benumbed  to  wait  unknown  disaster ; 

Full  soon  its  sworded  Messenger  was  seen  ; 

“ Behold  ! ” he  cried,  “ the  weak  shall  have  a master  ! 
The  Strong  shall  rule  ! There  reigns  another  Queen  ! ” 

Then  rushed  the  forces  of  the  night-born  Power, 

And  seized  white  Liberty,  and  cast  her  down  ; 

Man’s  plundered  birthright  was  the  new  Queen’s  dower, 
The  sorrow  of  the  weak  ones  was  her  crown. 

Her  name  was  Law  ! She  sent  her  proclamation 
Through  every  land  and  set  her  crimson  seal 

On  every  strangled  right  and  revocation 
Of  aim  and  instinct  of  the  common  weal. 

She  saw  the  true  Queen  prisoned  by  her  creatures  ; 

Who  dared  to  speak,  was  slain  by  her  command. 

Her  face  was  lusterless.  With  smileless  features 
She  took  the  throne — a weapon  in  her  hand  ! 


602 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


Her  new  code  read  : “ The  earth  is  for  the  able  ” 

(And  able  meant  the  selfish,  strong,  and  shrewd) ; 

“ Equality  and  freedom  are  a fable  ; 

To  take  and  keep  the  largest  share  is  good.” 

Her  teachers  taught  the  justice  of  oppression, 

That  taxed  the  poor  on  all  but  air  and  sun  ; 

Her  preachers  preached  the  gospel  of  possession, 

That  hoards  had  rights  while  human  souls  had  none. 

Then  all  things  changed  their  object  and  relation  ; 

Commerce  instead  of  Nature— Progress  instead  of  Men  ; 
The  world  became  a monstrous  corporation, 

Where  ninety  serfs  ground  luxury  for  ten. 

The  masters  blessed,  the  toilers  cursed  the  system 
That  classified  and  kept  mankind  apart ; 

But  passing  ages  rained  the  dust  of  custom 
Where  broken  Nature  showed  the  weld  of  art. 

But  there  were  some  who  scorned  to  make  alliance, 

Who  owned  the  true  Queen  even  in  the  dust ; 

And  these,  through  generations,  flung  defiance 
From  goal  and  gibbet  for  their  sacred  trust. 

Then  came  the  Christ,  the  Saviour  and  the  Brother, 

With  truth  and  freedom  once  again  the  seed ; 

“ Woe  to  the  rich  ! Do  ye  to  one  another 
As  each  desires  for  self  ” — man’s  primal  creed. 

But,  lo  ! they  took  the  Saviour  and  they  bound  him, 

And  set  him  in  their  midst  as  he  were  free  ; 

They  made  His  tied  hands  seal  their  deeds  around  Him, 
And  His  dumb  lips  condemn  fair  Liberty  ! 

“ Then  woe  ! ” cried  those  faint-hearted  ; “ woe  fordream- 
ing, 

For  prayers  and  hopes  and  sufferings  all  in  vain  ! ” 

O Souls  despondent  at  the  outward  seeming, 

Here  at  the  cry,  behold  the  light  again  ! 

Here  at  the  cry,  the  answer  and  solution  : 

When  strong  as  Death  the  cold  usurper  reigns, 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES.  603 

When  human  right  seems  doomed  to  dissolution, 

And  Hope  itself  is  wrung  with  mortal  pains  ; 

When  Christ  is  harnessed  to  the  landlord’s  burden  ; 

His  truth  to  make  men  free  a thing  of  scorn  ; 

God  hears  the  cry,  and  sends  the  mystic  guerdon, — 

Earth  thrills  and  throes — another  Queen  is  born  ! 

O weak  she  comes,  a child  and  not  a woman  ; 

Heeding  our  nursing  and  devotion  long  ; 

But  in  her  eyes  the  flame  divine  and  human, 

To  strengthen  weak  ones  and  restrain  the  strong. 

Her  name  is  Learning  ! Her  domain  unbounded  ; 

Of  all  the  fetters  she  commands  the  key  ; 

Through  her  babe-mouth  man’s  wrong  shall  be  confounded, 
And  link  by  link  her  sister  Queen  set  free. 

Her  hand  shall  hold  the  patriotic  passes, 

And  check  the  wrong  that  zeal  would  do  for  right ; 

Her  whispered  secrets  shall  inflame  the  masses 
To  read  their  planet-charter  by  her  light. 

Round  her  to-day  may  press  the  base  Queen’s  minions, 
Seeking  alliance  and  approval.  Hay  ! 

The  day  and  night  shall  mingle  their  dominions 
Ere  Hature’s  rule  and  Mammon’s  join  their  sway. 

Our  new  Queen  comes  a nursling,  thus  to  teach  us 
The  patience  and  the  tenderness  we  need  : 

To  raise  our  natures  that  the  light  may  reach  us 
Of  sacrifice  and  silence  for  a creed. 

A nursling  yet, — but  every  school  and  college 
Is  training  minds  to  tend  the  heavenly  maid  ; 

And  men  are  learning,  grain  by  grain,  the  knowledge 
That  worlds  exist  for  higher  ends  than  trade. 

Grander  than  Vulcan’s  are  these  mighty  forges 
Where  souls  are  shaped  and  sharped  like  fiery  swords, 

To  arm  the  multitude  till  Might  disgorges, 

And  save  the  Saviour  from  the  selfish  hordes. 


604 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


Around  us  here  we  count  those  Pharos  stations, 
Where  men  are  bred  to  do  their  Queen’s  behest : 
To  guard  the  deep  republican  foundations 
Of  our  majestic  freedom  of  the  West ! 

From  our  high  place  the  broken  view  grows  clearer, 
The  bloodstained  upward  path  the  patriots  trod  ; 
Shall  we  not  reach  to  bring  the  toilers  nearer 
The  law  of  Nature,  Liberty,  and  God  ? 


THE  LAST  OF  THE  NARWHALE. 


THE  STORY  OF  AN  ARCTIC  NIP. 


AY,  ay,  I’ll  tell  you,  shipmates, 

If  you  care  to  hear  the  tale, 

How  myself  and  the  royal  yard  alone 
Were  left  of  the  old  Nar whale. 

“ A stouter  ship  was  never  launched 
Of  all  the  Clyde-built  whalers  ; 

And  forty  years  of  a life  at  sea 

Haven’t  matched  her  crowd  of  sailors. 

Picked  men  they  were,  all  young  and  strong, 
And  used  to  the  wildest  seas, 

From  Donegal  and  the  Scottish  coast, 

And  the  rugged  Hebrides. 

Such  men  as  women  cling  to,  mates, 

Like  ivy  round  their  lives : 

And  the  day  we  sailed,  the  quays  were  lined 
With  weeping  mothers  and  wives. 

They  cried  and  prayed,  and  we  gave  ’em  a cheer, 
In  the  thoughtless  way  of  men  ; 

God  help  them,  shipmates — thirty  years 
They’ve  waited  and  prayed  since  then. 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES.  005 

“ We  sailed  to  the  North,  and  I mind  it  well, 

The  pity  we  felt,  and  pride 
When  we  sighted  the  cliffs  of  Labrador 
From  the  sea  where  Hudson  died. 

We  talked  of  ships  that  never  came  back, 

And  when  the  great  floes  passed, 

Like  ghosts  in  the  night,  each  moonlit  peak 
Like  a great  war  frigate’s  mast, 

’Twas  said  that  a ship  was  frozen  up 
In  the  iceberg’s  awful  breast, 

The  clear  ice  holding  the  sailor’ s face 
As  he  lay  in  his  mortal  rest. 

And  I’ve  thought  since  then,  when  the  ships  came  home 
That  sailed  for  the  Franklin  band, 

A mistake  was  made  in  the  reckoning 
That  looked  for  the  crews  on  land. 

‘They’re  floating  still,’  I’ve  said  to  myself, 

4 And  Sir  John  has  found  the  goal ; 

The  Erebus  and  the  Terror,  mates, 

Are  icebergs  up  at  the  Pole  ! ’ 

“ We  sailed  due  North,  to  Baffin’s  Bay, 

And  cruised  through  weeks  of  light ; 

’Twas  always  day,  and  we  slept  by  the  bell, 

And  longed  for  the  dear  old  night, 

And  the  blessed  darkness  left  behind, 

Like  a curtain  round  the  bed  ; 

But  a month  dragged  on  like  an  afternoon 
With  the  wheeling  sun  o’erhead. 

We  found  the  whales  were  farther  still, 

The  farther  north  we  sailed  ; 

Along  the  Greenland  glacier  coast, 

The  boldest  might  have  quailed, 

Such  shapes  did  keep  us  company  ; 

No  sail  in  all  that  sea, 

But  thick  as  ships  in  Mersey’s  tide 
The  bergs  moved  awfully 


606 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


Within  the  current’s  northward  stream  ; 

But,  ere  the  long  day’s  close, 

We  found  the  whales  and  filled  the  ship 
Amid  the  friendly  floes. 

“ Then  came  a rest : the  day  was  blown 
Like  a cloud  before  the  night ; 

In  the  South  the  sun  went  redly  down — 

In  the  North  rose  another  light, 

Neither  sun  nor  moon,  but  a shooting  dawn, 
That  silvered  our  lonely  way  ; 

It  seemed  we  sailed  in  a belt  of  gloom, 

Upon  either  side,  a day. 

The  north  wind  smote  the  sea  to  death  ; 

The  pack-ice  closed  us  round — 

The  Narwhale  stood  in  the  level  fields 
As  fast  as  a ship  aground. 

A weary  time  it  was  to  wait, 

And  to  wish  for  spring  to  come, 

With  the  pleasant  breeze  and  the  blessed  sun, 

To  open  the  way  toward  home. 

“ Spring  came  at  last,  the  ice-fields  groaned 
Like  living  things  in  pain  ; 

They  moaned  and  swayed,  then  rent  amain, 

And  the  Narwhale  sailed  again. 

With  joy  the  dripping  sails  were  loosed 
And  round  the  vessel  swung  ; 

To  cheer  the  crew,  full  south  she  drew, 

The  shattered  floes  among. 

We  had  no  books  in  those  old  days 
To  carry  the  friendly  faces 
But  I think  the  wives  and  lasses  then 
Were  held  in  better  places. 

The  face  of  sweetheart  and  wife  to-day 
Is  locked  in  the  sailor’s  chest : 

But  aloft  on  the  yard,  with  the  thought  of  home, 
The  face  in  the  heart  was  best. 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


607 


Well,  well — God  knows,  mates,  when  and  where 
To  take  the  things  he  gave  ; 

We  steered  for  home — but  the  chart  was  his, 
And  the  port  ahead — the  grave  ! 

uWe  cleared  the  floes  : through  an  open  sea 
The  Nar whale  south’ ard  sailed, 

Till  a day  came  round  when  the  white  fog  rose, 
And  the  wind  astern  had  failed. 

In  front  of  the  Greenland  glacier  line, 

And  close  to  its  base  were  we  ; 

Through  the  misty  pall  we  could  see  the  wall 
That  beetled  above  the  sea. 

A fear  like  the  fog  crept  over  our  hearts 
As  we  heard  the  hollow  roar 
Of  the  deep  sea  thrashing  the  cliffs  of  ice 
For  leagues  along  the  shore. 

“ The  years  have  come  and  the  years  have  gone, 
But  it  never  wears  away — 

The 'sense  I have  of  the  sights  and  sounds 
That  marked  that  woeful  day. 

Flung  here  and  there  at  the  ocean’s  will, 

As  it  flung  the  broken  floe — 

What  strength  had  we  ’gainst  the  tiger  sea 
That  sports  with  a sailor’s  woe  ? 

The  lifeless  berg  and  the  lifeful  ship 
Were  the  same  to  the  sullen  wave, 

As  it  swept  them  far  from  ridge  to  ridge, 

Till  at  last  the  Narwhale  drave 
With  a crashing  rail  on  the  glacier  wall — 

As  sheer  as  the  vessel’s  mast — 

A crashing  rail  and  a shivered  yard  ; 

But  the  worst,  we  thought,  was  past. 

The  brave  lads  sprang  to  the  fending  work, 

And  the  skipper’s  voice  rang  hard  : 

‘ Aloft  there,  one  with  a ready  knife— 

Cut  loose  that  royal  yard  ! ’ 


608 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


I sprang  to  the  rigging,  young  I was, 

And  proud  to  be  first  to  dare  : 

The  yard  swung  free,  and  I turned  to  gaze 
Toward  the  open  sea,  o’er  the  field  of  haze, 

And  my  heart  grew  cold,  as  if  frozen  through, 

At  the  moving  shape  that  met  my  view — 

0 Christ ! what  a sight  was  there  ! 

“ Above  the  fog,  as  I hugged  the  yard, 

1 saw  that  an  iceberg  lay — 

A berg  like  a mountain,  closing  fast — 

Not  a cable’s  length  away  ! 

I could  not  see  through  the  sheet  of  mist 
That  covered  all  below, 

But  I heard  the  cheery  voices  still, 

And  I screamed  to  let  them  know. 

The  cry  went  down,  and  the  skipper  hailed, 

But  before  the  word  could  come 
It  died  in  his  throat — and  I knew  they  saw 
The  shape  of  the  closing  doom  ! 

“ No  sound  but  that — but  the  hail  that  died 
Came  up  through  the  mist  to  me  ; 

Thank  God,  it  covered  the  ship  like  a veil, 

And  I was  not  forced  to  see — 

But  I heard  it,  mates  : 0,  I heard  the  rush, 

And  the  timbers  rend  and  rive, 

As  the  yard  I clung  to  swayed  and  fell : — I lay  on  the 
ice,  alive! 

Alive  ! O God  of  mercy  ! ship  and  crew  and  sea  were 
gone ! 

The  hum  mocked  ice  and  the  broken  yard, 

And  a kneeling  man — alone  ! 

“ A kneeling  man  on  a frozen  hill, 

The  sounds  of  life  in  the  air — 

All  death  and  ice — and  a minute  before 
The  sea  and  the  ship  were  there  ! 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


609 


I could  not  think  they  were  dead  and  gone, 

And  I listened  for  sound  or  word  : 

But  the  deep  sea  roar  on  the  desolate  shore 
Wa s the  only  sound  I heard. 

0 mates,  I had  no  heart  to  thank 
The  Lord  for  the  life  He  gave ; 

1 spread  my  arms  on  the  ice  and  cried 
Aloud  on  my  shipmates’  grave. 

The  brave  strong  lads,  with  their  strength  all  vain, 
I called  them  name  by  name  ; 

And  it  seemed  to  me  from  the  dying  hearts 
A message  upward  came — 

Ay,  mates,  a message,  up  through  the  ice 
From  every  sailor’s  breast : 

‘ Go  tell  our  mothers  and  wives  at  home 
To  pray  for  us  here  at  rest .’ 

“ Yes,  that’s  what  it  means  ; ’tis  a little  word  ; 
But,  mates,  the  strongest  ship 

That  ever  was  built  is  a baby’s  toy 
When  it  copes  with  an  Arctic  Mp.” 


THE  LURE. 


U"TT7"HAT  bait  do  you  use,”  said  a Saint  to  the  Devil, 
VV  “ When  you  fish  where  the  souls  of  men  abound  ? ” 
“Well,  for  special  tastes,”  said  the  King  of  Evil, 

“ Gold  and  Fame  are  the  best  I’ve  found.” 

“ But  for  common  use  ? ” asked  the  Saint.  “ Ah,  then,” 
Said  the  Demon,  “ I angle  for  Man,  not  men, 

And  a thing  I hate 
Is  to  change  my  bait, 

So  I fish  with  a woman  the  whole  year  round.” 


610 


JOHN  BOYLE  O5  REILLY. 

THE  FLYING  DUTCHMAN. 


LONG  time  ago,  from  Amsterdam  a vessel  sailed  away, — 
As  fair  a ship  as  ever  flung  aside  the  laughing  spray. 
Upon  the  shore  were  tearful  eyes,  and  scarfs  were  in  the  air, 
As  to  her,  o’er  the  Zuyder  Zee,  went  fond  adieu  and  prayer  ; 
And  brave  hearts,  yearning  shoreward  from  the  outward- 
going ship,. 

Felt  lingering  kisses  clinging  still  to  tear- wet  cheek  and 
lip. 

She  steered  for  some  far  eastern  clime,  and,  as  she  skimmed 
the  seas, 

Each  taper  mast  was  bending  like  a rod  before  the  breeze. 

Her  captain  was  a stalwart  man, — an  iron  heart  had  he, — 
From  childhood’s  days  he  sailed  upon  the  rolling  Zuyder 
Zee : 

He  nothing  feared  upon  the  earth,  and  scarcely  heaven 
feared, 

He  would  have  dared  and  done  whatever  mortal  man  had 
dared  ! 

He  looked  aloft,  where  high  in  air  the  pennant  cut  the 
blue, 

And  every  rope  and  spar  and  sail  was  firm  and  strong  and 
true. 

He  turned  him  from  the  swelling  sail  to  gaze  upon  the 
shore, — 

Ah  ! little  thought  the  skipper  then  ’t would  meet  his  eye 
no  more  : 

He  dreamt  not  that  an  awful  doom  was  hanging  o’er  his 
ship, 

That  Vanderdecken’s  name  would  yet  make  pale  the 
speaker’s  lip. 

The  vessel  bounded  on  her  way,  and  spire  and  dome  went 
down, — 

Ere  darkness  fell,  beneath  the  wave  had  sunk  the  distant 
town. 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


Oil 


No  more,  no.  more,  ye  hapless  crew,  shall  Holland  meet 
your  eye. 

In  lingering  hope  and  keen  suspense,  maid,  wife,  and  child 
shall  die  ! 

Away,  away  the  vessel  speeds,  till  sea  and  sky  alone 

Are  round  her,  as  her  course  she  steers  across  the  torrid 
zone. 

Away,  until  the  North  Star  fades,  the  Southern  Cross  is 
high, 

And  myriad  gems  of  brightest  beam  are  sparkling  in  the 
sky. 

The  tropic  winds  are  left  behind  ; she  nears  the  Cape  of 
Storms, 

Where  awful  Tempest  ever  sits  enthroned  in  wild  alarms  ; 

Where  Ocean  in  his  anger  shakes  aloft  his  foamy  crest, 

Disdainful  of  the  weakly  toys  that  ride  upon  his  breast. 

Fierce  swell  the  winds  and  waters  round  the  Dutchman’s 
gallant  ship, 

But,  to  their  rage,  defiance  rings  from  Vanderdecken’s  lip  : 

Impotent  they  to  make  him  swerve,  their  might  he  dares 
despise, 

As  straight  he  holds  his  onward  course,  and  wind  and  wave 
defies. 

For  days  and  nights  he  struggles  in  the  weird,  unearthly 
fight. 

His  brow  is  bent,  his  eye  is  fierce,  but  looks  of  deep  affright 

Amongst  the  mariners  go  round,  as  hopelessly  they  steer  : 

They  do  not  dare  to  murmur,  but  they  whisper  what  they 
fear. 

Their  black-browed  captain  awes  them  : ’neath  his  dark- 
ened eye  they  quail, 

And  in  a grim  and  sullen  mood  their  bitter  fate  bewail. 

As  some  fierce  rider  ruthless  spurs  a timid,  wavering  horse, 

He  drives  his  shapely  vessel,  and  they  watch  the  reckless 
course, 


612 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


Till  once  again  their  skipper’s  laugh  is  flung  upon  the  blast : 

The  placid  ocean  smiles  beyond,  the  dreaded  Cape  is 
passed ! 

Away  across  the  Indian  main  the  vessel  northward  glides  ; 

A thousand  murmuring  ripples  break  along  her  graceful 
sides : 

The  perfumed  breezes  fill  her  sails, — her  destined  port  she 
nears, — 

The  captain’s  brow  has  lost  its  frown,  the  mariners  their 
fears. 

“Land  ho!”  at  length  the  welcome  sound  the  watchful 
sailor  sings, 

And  soon  within  an  Indian  bay  the  ship  at  anchor  swings. 

Not  idle  then  the  busy  crew : ere  long  the  spacious  hold 

Is  emptied  of  its  western  freight,  and  stored  with  silk  and 
gold. 

Again  the  ponderous  anchor  ’s  weighed  ; the  shore  is  left 
behind, 

The  snowy  sails  are  bosomed  out  before  the  favoring  wind. 

Across  the  warm  blue  Indian  sea  the  vessel  southward  flies, 

And  once  again  the  North  Star  fades  and  Austral  beacons 
rise. 

For  home  she  steers  ! she  seems  to  know  and  answer  to  the 
word, 

And  swifter  skims  the  burnished  deep,  like  some  fair  ocean- 
bird. 

“For  home  ! for  home  ! ” the  merry  crew  with  gladsome 
voices  cry, 

And  dark-browed  Vanderdecken  has  a mild  light  in  his 
eye. 

But  once  again  the  Cape  draws  near,  and  furious  billows 
rise  ; 

And  still  the  daring  Dutchman’s  laugh  the  hurricane  defies. 

But  wildly  shrieked  the  tempest  ere  the  scornful  sound  had 
died, 

A warning  to  the  daring  man  to  curb  his  impious  pride. 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES.  613 

A crested  mountain  struck  the  ship,  and  like  a frighted  bird 

She  trembled  ’neath  the  awful  shock.  Then  Yanderdecken 
heard 

A pleading  voice  within  the  gale, — his  better  angel  spoke, 

But  fled  before  his  scowling  look,  as  mast-high  mountains 
broke 

Around  the  trembling  vessel,  till  the  crew  wittfterror  paled  ; 

But  Yanderdecken  never  flinched,  nor  ’neath  the  thunders 
quailed. 

With  folded  arms  and  stern-pressed  lips,  dark  anger  in  his 
eye, 

He  answered  back  the  threatening  frown  that  lowered  o’er 
the  sky. 

With  fierce  defiance  in  his  heart,  and  scornful  look  of  flame, 

He  spoke,  and  thus  with  impious  voice  blasphemed  God’s 
holy  name  : 

“Howl  on,  ye  winds!  ye  tempests,  howl!  your  rage  is 
spent  in  vain  : 

Despite  your  strength,  your  frowns,  your  hate,  I’ll  ride 
upon  the  main. 

Defiance  to  your  idle  shrieks  ! I’ll  sail  upon  my  path  : 

I cringe  not  for  thy  Maker’s  smile, — I care  not  for  His 
wrath  ! ” 

He  ceased.  An  awful  silence  fell ; the  tempest  and  the  sea 

Were  hushed  in  sudden  stillness  by  the  Ruler’s  dread 
decree. 

The  ship  was  riding  motionless  within  the  gathering  gloom  ; 

The  Dutchman  stood  upon  the  poop  and  heard  his  dreadful 
doom. 

The  hapless  crew  were  on  the  deck  in  swooning  terror 
prone, — 

They,  too,  were  bound  in  fearful  fate.  In  angered  thunder- 
tone 

The  judgment  words  swept  o’er  the  sea:  “Go,  wretch, 
accurst,  condemned! 

Go  sail  for  ever  on  the  deep,  by  shrieking  tempests 
hemmed ! 


614  JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 

No  home,  no  port,  no  calm,  no  rest,  no  gentle  fav’ring 
breeze, 

Shall  ever  greet  thee.  Go,  accurst!  and  battle  with  the 
seas ! 

Go,  braggart ! struggle  with  the  storm,  nor  ever  cease  to 
live, 

But  bear  a million  times  the  pangs  that  death  and  fear  can 
give ! 

Away ! and  hide  thy  guilty  head,  a curse  to  all  thy 
kind 

Who  ever  see  thee  struggling,  wretch,  with  ocean  and  with 
wind  ! 

Away,  presumptuous  worm  of  earth  ! Go  teach  thy  fellow- 
worms 

The  awful  fate  that  waits  on  him  who  braves  the  King  of 
Storms ! ” 

’Twas  o’er.  A lurid  lightning  flash  lit  up  the  sea  and  sky 

Around  and  o’er  the  fated  ship  ; then  rose  a wailing  cry 

From  every  heart  within  her,  of  keen  anguish  and  despair ; 

But  mercy  was  for  them  no  more, — it  died  away  in  air. 

Once  more  the  lurid  light  gleamed  out, — the  ship  was  still 
at  rest, 

The  crew  were  standing  at  their  posts ; with  arms  across 
his  breast 

Still  stood  the  captain  on  the  poop,  but  bent  and  crouch- 
ing now 

He  bowed  beneath  that  fiat  dread,  and  o’er  his  swarthy 
brow 

Swept  lines  of  anguish,  as  if  he  a thousand  years  of 
pain 

Had  lived  and  suffered.  Then  across  the  heaving,  angry 
main 

The  tempest  shrieked  triumphant,  and  the  angry  waters 
hissed 

Their  vengeful  hate  against  the  toy  they  oftentimes  had 
kissed. 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


615 


And  ever  through  the  midnight . storm  that  hapless  crew 
must  speed : 

They  try  to  round  the  stormy  Cape,  but  never  can  succeed. 

And  oft  when  gales  are  wildest,  and  the  lightning’s  vivid 
sheen 

Flashes  back  the  ocean’s  anger,  still  the  Phantom  Ship  is 
seen 

Ever  sailing  to  the  southward  in  the  fierce  tornado’s  swoop, 

With  her  ghostly  crew  and  canvas,  and  her  captain  on  the 
poop, 

Unrelenting,  unforgiven  ! and  ’ tis  said  that  every  word 

Of  his  blasphemous  defiance  still  upon  the  gale  is  heard  ! 

But  Heaven  help  the  ship  near  which  the  dismal  sailor 
steers, — 

The  doom  of  those  is  sealed  to  whom  that  Phantom  Ship 
appears : 

They’ll  never  reach  their  destined  port, — they’ll  see  their 
homes  no  more, — 

They  who  see  the  Flying  Dutchman — never,  never  reach 
the  shore ! 


016 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


UNCLE  NED’S  TALE. 


AN  OLD  DRAGOON’S  STORY. 


I OFTEN,  musing,  wander  back  to  days  long  since  gone 

by, 

And  far-off  scenes  and  long-lost  forms  arise  to  fancy’s  eye. 
A groux>  familiar  now  I see,  who  all  but  one  are  fled, — 

My  mother,  sister  Jane,  myself,  and  dear  old  Uncle  Ned. 
I’ll  tell  you  how  I see  them  now.  First,  mother  in  her 
chair 

Sits  knitting  by  the  parlor  fire,  with  anxious  matron  air  ; 
My  sister  Jane,  just  nine  years  old,  is  seated  at  her  feet, 
With  look  demure,  as  if  she,  too,  were  thinking  how  to 
meet 

The  butcher’s  or  the  baker’s  bill, — though  not  a thought 
has  she 

Of  aught  beside  her  girlish  toys  ; and  next  to  her  I see 
Myself,  a sturdy  lad  of  twelve, — neglectful  of  the  book 
That  open  lies  upon  my  knee, — my  fixed  admiring  look 
At  Uncle  Ned,  upon  the  left,  whose  upright,  martial  mien, 
Whose  empty  sleeve  and  gray  mustache,  proclaim  what 
he  has  been. 

My  mother  I had  always  loved  ; my  father  then  was  dead  ; 
But  ’twas  more  than  love — ’twas  worship — I felt  for  Uncle 
Ned. 

Such  tales  he  had  of  battle-fields, — the  victory  and  the 
rout, 

The  ringing  cheer,  the  dying  shriek,  the  loud  exulting 
shout ! 

And  how,  forgetting  age  and  wounds,  his  eye  would  kindle 
bright, 

When  telling  of  some  desperate  ride  or  close  and  deadly 
fight ! 

But  oft  I noticed,  in  the  midst  of  some  wild  martial  tale, 
To  which  I lent  attentive  ear,  my  mother’s  cheek  grow 
pale  : 


617 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 

She  sighed  to  see  my  kindled  look,  and  feared  I might  be 
led 

To  follow  in  the  wayward  steps  of  poor  old  Uncle  Ned. 

But  with  all  the  wondrous  tales  he  told,  ’twas  strange  I 
never  heard 

Of  his  last  light,  for  of  that  day  he  never  spoke  a 
word. 

And  yet  ’twas  there  he  lost  his  arm,  and  once  he  e’en 
confessed 

’Twas  there  he  won  the  glittering  cross  he  wore  upon  his 
breast. 

It  hung  the  center  of  a group  of  Glory’s  emblems  fair, 

And  royal  hands,  he  told  me  once,  had  placed  the  bauble 
there. 

Each  day  that  passed  I hungered  more  to  hear  about  that 
fight, 

And  oftentimes  I prayed  in  vain.  At  length,  one  winter’s 
night,— 

The  very  night  I speak  of  now, — with  more  than  usual 
care 

I filled  his  pipe,  then  took  my  stand  beside  my  uncle’s 
chair : 

I fixed  my  eyes  upon  the  Cross,— he  saw  my  youthful 
plan  ; 

And,  smiling,  laid  the  pipe  aside  and  thus  the  tale 
began  : 

‘ 4 Well,  boy,  it  was  in  summer  time,  and  just  at  morning’s 
light 

We  heard  the  ‘ Boot  and  Saddle!’  sound:  the  foe  was 
then  in  sight, 

Just  winding  round  a distant  hill  and  opening  on  the 
plain. 

Each  trooper  looked  with  careful  eye  to  girth  and  curb  and 
rein. 

We  snatched  a hasty  breakfast, — we  were  old  campaigners 
then : 

That  morn,  of  all  our  splendid  corps,  we’d  scarce  one  hun- 
dred men ; 


618 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


Bat  they  were  soldiers,  tried  and  true,  who’d  rather  die 
than  yield : 

The  rest  were  scattered  far  and  wide  o’er  many  a hard- 
fought  field. 

Our  trumpet  now  rang  sharply  out,  and  at  a swinging  pace 

We  left  the  bivouac  behind  ; and  soon  the  eye  could  trace 

The  columns  moving  o’er  the  plain.  Oh  ! ’twas  a stirring 
sight 

To  see  two  mighty  armies  there  preparing  for  the  fight : 

To  watch  the  heavy  masses,  as,  with  practiced,  steady 
wheel, 

They  opened  out  in  slender  lines  of  brightly  flashing  steel. 

Our  place  was  on  the  farther  flank,  behind  some  rising 
ground, 

That  hid  the  stirring  scene  from  view  ; but  soon  a booming 
sound 

Proclaimed  the  opening  of  the  fight.  Then  war’s  loud 
thunder  rolled, 

And  hurtling  shells  and  whistling  balls  their  deadly  mes- 
sage told. 

We  hoped  to  have  a gallant  day ; our  hearts  were  all 
aglow ; 

We  longed  for  one  wild,  sweeping  charge,  to  chase  the  fly- 
ing foe. 

Our  troopers  marked  the  hours  glide  by,  but  still  no  orders 
came : 

They  clutched  their  swords,  and  muttered  words  ’twere 
better  not  to  name. 

For  hours  the  loud  artillery  roared, — the  sun  was  at  its 
height, — 

Still  there  we  lay  behind  that  hill,  shut  out  from  all  the 
fight ! 

We  heard  the  maddened  charging  yells,  the  ringing  British 
cheers, 

And  all  the  din  of  glorious  war  kept  sounding  in  our  ears. 

Our  hearts  with  fierce  impatience  throbbed,  we  cursed  the 
very  hill 

That  hid  the  sight : the  evening  fell,  and  we  were  idle  still. 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


619 


The  horses,  too,  were  almost  wild,  and  told  with  angry  snort 

And  blazing  eye  their  fierce  desire  to  join  the  savage  sport. 

When  lower  still  the  sun  had  sunk,  and  with  it  all  our 
hope,  • 

A horseman,  soiled  with  smoke  and  sweat,  came  dashing 
down  the  slope. 

He  bore  the  wished-for  orders.  4 At  last ! ’ our  Colonel 
cried ; 

And  as  he  read  the  brief  dispatch  his  glance  was  filled  with 
pride. 

Then  he  who  bore  the  orders,  in  a low,  emphatic  tone, 

The  stern,  expressive  sentence  spoke, — 4 He  said  it  must 
be  done  ! ’ 

4 It  shall  be  done ! ’ our  Colonel  cried.  4 Men,  look  to 
strap  and  girth, 

We’ve  work  to  do  this  day  will  prove  what  every  man  is 
worth  ; 

Ay,  work,  my  lads,  will  make  amends  for  all  our  long  de- 
lay,— 

The  General  says  on  us  depends  the  fortune  of  the  day  ! ’ 

44  No  order  needed  we  to  mount, — each  man  was  in  his 
place, 

And  stern  and  dangerous  was  the  look  on  every  veteran 
face. 

We  trotted  sharply  up  the  hill,  and  halted  on  the  brow, 

And  then  that  glorious  field  appeared.  Oh ! lad,  I see  it 
now ! 

Bu-t  little  time  had  we  to  spare  for  idle  gazing  then  : 

Beneath  us,  in  the  valley,  stood  a dark-clad  mass  of  men  : 

It  cut  the  British  line  in  two.  Our  Colonel  shouted. 
4 There  ! 

Behold  your  work  ! Our  orders  are  to  charge  and  break 
that  square  ! ’ 

Each  trooper  drew  a heavy  breath,  then  gathered  up  his 
reins, 

And  pressed  the  helmet  o’er  his  brow ; the  horses  tossed 
their  manes 


620  JOHN  BOYLE  o’ REILLY. 

Ill  protest  fierce  against  the  curb,  and  spurned  the  springy 
heath, 

Iinjiatient  for  the  trumpet’s  sound  to  bid  them  rush  to 
death. 


“ Well,  boy,  that  moment  seemed  an  hour : at  last  we  heard 
the  words, — 

4 Dragoons  ! I know  you’ll  follow  me.  Ride  steady,  men  ! 
Draw  swords  ! ’ 

The  trumpet  sounded : off  we  dashed,  at  first  with  steady 
pace, 

But  growing  swifter  as  we  went.  Oh!  ’twas  a gallant 
race ! 

Three-fourths  the  ground  was  left  behind : the  loud  and 
thrilling  4 Charge  ! ’ 

Rang  out ; but,  fairly  frantic  now,  we  needed  not  to 
urge 

With  voice  or  rein  our  gallant  steeds,  or  touch  their  foam- 
ing flanks. 

They  seemed  to  fly.  Now  straight  in  front  appeared  the 
kneeling  ranks. 

Above  them  waved  a standard  broad  : we  saw  their  rifles 
raised,— 

A moment  more,  with  awful  crash,  the  deadly  volley 
blazed. 

The  bullets  whistled  through  our  ranks,  and  many  a trooper 
fell ; 

But  we  were  left.  What  cared  we  then  ? but  onward 
rushing  still  ! 

Again  the  crash  roared  fiercely  out ; but  on  ! still  madly 
on ! 

We  heard  the  shrieks  of  dying  men,  but  recked  not  who 
was  gone. 

We  gored  the  horses’  foaming  flanks,  and  on  through 
smoke  and  glare 

We  wildly  dashed,  with  clenched  teeth.  We  had  no 
thought,  no  care ! 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES.  621 

Then  came  a sudden,  sweeping  rush.  Again  with  savage 
heel 

I struck  my  horse:  with  awful  bound  he  rose  right  o’er 
their  steel ! 

“ Well,  boy,  I cannot  tell  you  how  that  dreadful  leap  was 
made, 

But  there  I rode,  inside  the  square,  and  grasped  a reeking 
blade. 

I cared  not  that  I was  alone,  my  eyes  seemed  filled  with 
blood : 

I never  thought  a man  could  feel  in  such  a murderous 
mood. 

I parried  not,  nor  guarded  thrusts ; I felt  not  pain  or 
wound, 

But  madly  spurred  the  frantic  horse,  and  swept  my  sword 
around. 

I tried  to  reach  the  standard  sheet ; but  there  at  last  was 
foiled. 

The  gallant  horse  was  jaded  now,  and  from  the  steel 
recoiled. 

They  saw  his  fright,  and  pressed  him  then  : his  terror  made 
him  rear, 

And  falling  back  he  crushed  their  ranks,  and  broke  their 
guarded  square ! 

My  comrades  saw  the  gap  he  made,  and  soon  came  dash- 
ing in ; 

They  raised  me  up, — I felt  no  hurt,  but  mingled  in  the  din. 

I’d  seen  some  fearful  work  before,  but  never  was  engaged 

In  such  a wild  and  savage  fight  as  now  around  me  raged. 

The  foe  had  ceased  their  firing,  and  now  plied  the  deadly 
steel : 

Though  all  our  men  were  wounded  then,  no  pain  they 
seemed  to  feel. 

No  groans  escaped  from  those  who  fell,  but  horrid  oaths 
instead, 

And  scowling  looks  of  hate  were  on  the  features  of  the 
dead. 


622  JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 

The  fight  was  round  the  standard:  though  outnumbered 
ten  to  one, 

We  held  our  ground, — ay,  more  than  that, — we  still  kept 
pushing  on. 

Our  men  now  made  a desperate  rush  to  take  the  flag  by 
storm. 

I seized  the  pole,  a blow  came  down  and  crushed  my  out- 
stretched arm. 

I felt  a sudden  thrill  of  pain,  but  that  soon  passed 
away  ; 

And,  with  a devilish  thirst  for  blood,  again  I joined  the 
fray. 

At  last  we  rallied  all  our  strength,  and  charged  o’er  heaps 
of  slain : 

Some  fought  to  death ; some  wavered, — then  fled  across 
the  plain. 

“Well,  boy,  the  rest  is  all  confused:  there  was  a fearful 
rout ; 

I saw  our  troopers  chase  the  foe,  and  heard  their  maddened 
shout. 

Then  came  a blank  : my  senses  reeled,  I know  not  how  I 
fell; 

I seemed  to  grapple  with  a foe,  but  that  I cannot  tell. 

My  mind  was  gone  : when  it  came  back  I saw  the  moon  on 
high ; 

Around  me  all  was  still  as  death.  I gazed  up  at  the  sky, 

And  watched  the  glimmering  stars  above, — so  quiet  did 
they  seem, — 

And  all  that  dreadful  field  appeared  like  some  wild,  fear- 
ful dream. 

But  memory  soon  came  back  again,  and  cleared  my  wander- 
ing brain, 

And  then  from  every  joint  and  limb  shot  fiery  darts  of 
pain. 

My  throat  was  parched,  the  burning  thirst  increased  with 
every  breath ; 

I made  no  effort  to  arise,  but  wished  and  prayed  for  death. 


623 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 

My  bridle  arm  was  broken,  and  lay  throbbing  on  the 
sward, 

But  something  still  my  right  hand  grasped : I thought  it 
was  my  sword. 

I raised  my  hand  to  cast  it  off, — no  reeking  blade  was  there  ; 

Then  life  and  strength  returned, — I held  the  Standard  of 
the  Square  ! 

With  bounding  heart  I gained  my  feet.  Oh!  then  I wished 
to  live, 

’Twas  strange  the  strength  and  love  of  life  that  standard 
seemed  to  give ! 

I gazed  around  : far  down  the  vale  I saw  a camp-fire’s  glow. 

With  wandering  step  I ran  that  way, — I recked  not  friend 
or  foe. 

Though  stumbling  now  o’er  heaps  of  dead,  now  o’er  a stiff- 
ened horse, 

I heeded  not,  but  watched  the  light,  and  held  my  onward 
course. 

But  soon  that  flash  of  strength  had  failed,  and  checked  my 
feverish  speed  ; 

Again  my  throat  was  all  ablaze,  my  wounds  began  to 
bleed. 

I knew  that  if  I fell  again,  my  chance  of  life  was  gone, 

So,  leaning  on  the  standard-pole,  I still  kept  struggling  on. 

At  length  I neared  the  camp-fire  : there  were  scarlet  jackets 
round, 

And  swords  and  brazen  helmets  lay  strewn  upon  the  ground. 

Some  distance  off,  in  order  ranged,  stood  men, — about  a 
score : 

0 God ! ’twas  all  that  now  remained  of  my  old  gallant 

corps ! 

The  muster-roll  was  being  called  : to  every  well-known 
name 

1 heard  the  solemn  answer, — ‘ Dead  ! ’ At  length  my  own 

turn  came. 

I paused  to  hear, — a comrade  answer,  ‘ Dead  ! I saw  him 
fall ! ’ 

I could  not  move  another  step,  I tried  in  vain  to  call. 


(324 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 

My  life  was  flowing  fast,  and  all  around  was  gathering 
haze, 

And  o’er  the  heather  tops  I watched  my  comrades’  cheer- 
ful blaze. 

I thought  such  anguish  as  I felt  was  more  than  man  could 
bear. 

0 God  ! it  was  an  awful  thing  to  die  with  help  so  near  ! 

And  death  was  stealing  o’er  me  : with  the  strength  of  wild 

despair 

1 raised  the  standard  o’er  my  head,  and  waved  it  through 

the  air. 

Then  all  grew  dim : the  fire,  the  men,  all  vanished  from 
my  sight, 

My  senses  reeled  ; I know  no  more  of  that  eventful  night. 

’Twas  weeks  before  my  mind  came  back  : I knew  not 
where  I lay, 

But  kindly  hands  were  round  me,  and  old  comrades  came 
each  day. 

They  told  me  how  the  waving  flag  that  night  had  caught 
their  eye, 

And  how  they  found  me  bleeding  there,  and  thought  that 
I must  die  ; 

They  brought  me  all  the  cheering  news, — the  war  was  at 
an  end. 

No  wonder  ’twas,  with  all  their  care,  I soon  began  to 
mend. 

The  General  came  to  see  me,  too,  with  all  his  brilliant 
train, 

But  what  he  said,  or  how  I felt,  to  tell  you  now  ’twere 
vain. 

Enough,  I soon  grew  strong  again  : the  wished-for  route 
had  come, 

And  all  the  gallant  veteran  troops  set  out  with  cheers  for 
home. 

We  soon  arrived;  and  then,  my  lad,  ’twould  thrill  your 
heart  to  hear 

How  England  welcomed  home  her  sons  with  many  a ring- 
ing  cheer. 


625 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 

But  tush  ! what  boots  it  now  to  speak  of  what  was  said  or 
done  ? 

The  victory  was  dearly  bought,  our  bravest  hearts  were 
gone. 

Ere  long  the  King  reviewed  us.  Ah!  that  memory  is 
sweet ! 

They  made  me  bear  the  foreign  flag,  and  lay  it  at  his  feet. 

I parted  from  my  brave  old  corps : ’twere  matter,  lad,  for 
tears, 

To  leave  the  kind  old  comrades  I had  ridden  with  for 
years. 

I was  no  longer  fit  for  war,  my  wanderings  had  to  cease. 

There,  boy,  I’ve  told  you  all  my  tales.  Now  let  me  smoke 
in  peace.” 

How  vivid  grows  the  picture  now  ! how  bright  each  scene 
appears  ! 

1 trace  each  loved  and  long-lost  face  with  eyes  bedimmed 
in  tears. 

How  plain  I hear  thee,  Uncle  Ned,  and  see  thy  musing  look, 

Comparing  all  thy  glory  to  the  curling  wreaths  of  smoke  ! 

A truer,  braver  soldier  ne’er  for  king  and  country  bled. 

His  wanderings  are  forever  o’er.  God  rest  thee,  Uncle 
Ned! 


UNCLE'  NEB’S  TALES. 


HOW  THE  FLAG  WAS  SAVED.  * 


’rp WAS  a dismal  winter’s  evening,  fast  without  came 
J-  down  the  snow, 

But  within,  the  cheerful  fire  cast  a ruddy,  genial  glow 
O’er  our  pleasant  little  parlor,  that  was  then  my  mother’s 
pride. 

There  she  sat  beside  the  glowing  grate,  my  sister  by  her 
side  ; 

* An  incident  from  the  record  of  the  Enniskillen  Dragoons  in  Spain,  under 
General  Picton. 


626 


JOHN  BOYLE  O*  REILLY. 


And  beyond,  within  the  shadow,  in  a cosy  little  nook 

Uncle  Ned  and  I were  sitting,  and  in  whispering  tones  we 
spoke. 

I was  asking  for  a story  he  had  promised  me  to  tell, — 

Of  his  comrade,  old  Dick  Hilton,  how  he  fought  and  how 
he  fell ; 

And  with  eager  voice  I pressed  him,  till  a mighty  final 
cloud 

Blew  he  slowly,  then  upon  his  breast  his  grisly  head  he 
bowed, 

And,  musing,  stroked  his  gray  mustache  ere  he  began  to 
speak, 

Then  brushed  a tear  that  stole  along  his  bronzed  and  fur- 
rowed cheek. 

“ Ah,  no  ! I will  not  speak  to-night  of  that  sad  tale,”  he 
cried, 

“Some  other  time  I’ll  tell  you,  boy,  about  that  splendid 
ride. 

Your  words  have  set  me  thinking  of  the  many  careless 
years 

That  comrade  rode  beside  me,  and  have  caused  these  bitter 
tears  ; 

For  I loved  him,  boy, — for  twenty  years  we  galloped  rein 
to  rein, — 

In  peace  and  war,  through  all  that  time,  stanch  comrades 
had  we  been. 

As  boys  we  rode  together  when  our  soldiering  first 
began, 

And  in  all  those  years  I knew  him  for  a true  and  trusty 
man. 

One  who  never  swerved  from  danger, — for  he  knew  not  how 
to  fear, — 

If  grim  Death  arrayed  his  legions,  Dick  would  charge  him 
with  a cheer. 

He  was  happiest  in  a struggle  or  a wild  and  dangerous 
ride : 

Every  inch  a trooper  was  he,  and  he  cared  for  naught 
beside. 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


627 


He  was  known  for  many  a gallant  deed  : to-night  I’ll  tell 
you  one, 

And  no  braver  feat  of  arms  was  by  a soldier  ever  done. 

’Twas  when  we  were  young  and  fearless,  for  ’twas  in  our 
first  campaign, 

When  we  galloped  through  the  orange  groves  and  fields  of 
sunny  Spain. 

Our  wary  old  commander  was  retiring  from  the  foe, 

Who  came  pressing  close  upon  us,  with  a proud,  exulting 
show. 

We  could  hear  their  taunting  laughter,  and  within  our 
very  sight 

Did  they  ride  defiant  round  us, — ay,  and  dared  us  to  the 
fight. 

But  brave  old  Picton  heeded  not,  but  held  his  backward 
track, 

And  smiling  said  the  day  would  come  to  pay  the  French- 
men back. 

And  come  it  did : one  morning,  long  before  the  break  of 
day, 

We  were  standing  to  our  arms,  all  ready  for  the  coming 
fray. 

Soon  the  sun  poured  down  his  glory  on  the  hostile  lines 
arrayed, 

And  his  beams  went  flashing  brightly  back  from  many  a 
burnished  blade, 

Soon  to  change  its  spotless  luster  for  a reeking  crimson 
stain, 

In  some  heart,  then  throbbing  proudly,  that  will  never 
throb  again 

When  that  sun  has  reached  his  zenith,  life  and  pride  will 
then  have  fled, 

And  his  beams  will  mock  in  splendor  o’er  the  ghastly 
heaps  of  dead. 

Oh,  ’tis  sad  to  think  how  many — but  I wander,  lad,  I 
fear ; 

And,  though  the  moral ’s  good,  I guess  the  tale  you’d 
rather  hear. 


628  JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 

Well,  I said  that  we  were  ready,  and  the  foe  was  ready, 
too  ; 

Soon  the  fight  was  raging  fiercely, — thick  and  fast  the 
bullets  flew, 

With  a bitter  hiss  of  malice,  as  if  hungry  for  the  life 

To  be  torn  from  manly  bosoms  in  the  maddening  heat  of 
strife. 

Distant  batteries  were  thundering,  pouring  grape  and  shell 
like  rain, 

And  the  cruel  missiles  hurtled  with  their  load  of  death 
and  pain, 

Which  they  carried,  like  fell  demons,  to  the  heart  of  some 
brigade, 

Where  the  sudden,  awful  stillness  told  the  havoc  they  had 
made. 

Thus  the  struggle  raged  till  noon,  and  neither  side  could 
vantage  show  ; 

Then  the  tide  of  battle  turned,  and  swept  in  favor  of  the 
foe! 

Fiercer  still  the  cannon  thundered, — wilder  screamed  the 
grape  and  shell, — 

Onward  pressed  the  French  battalions, — back  the  British 
masses  fell ! 

Then,  as  on  its  prey  devoted,  fierce  the  hungered  vulture 
swoops, 

Swung  the  foeman’s  charging  squadrons  down  upon  our 
broken  troops. 

Victory  hovered  o’er  their  standard, — on  they  swept  with 
maddened  shout, 

Spreading  death  and  havoc  round  them,  till  retreat  was 
changed  to  rout ! 

’Twas  a saddening  sight  to  witness  ; and,  when  Picton  saw 
them  fly, 

Grief  and  shame  were  mixed  and  burning  in  the  old  com- 
mander’s eye. 

We  were  riding  in  his  escort,  close  behind  him,  on  a height 

Which  the  fatal  field  commanded ; thence  we  viewed  the 
growing  flight. 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


629 


“But,  my  lad,  I now  must  tell  you  something  more  about 
that  hill, 

And  I’ll  try  to  make  you  see  the  spot  as  I can  see  it  still. 

Bight  before  us,  o’er  the  battle-field,  the  fall  was  sheer  and 
steep ; 

On  our  left  the  ground  fell  sloping,  in  a pleasant,  grassy 
sweep, 

Where  the  aides  went  dashing  swiftly,  bearing  orders  to 
and  fro, 

For  by  that  sloping  side  alone  they  reached  the  plain 
below. 

On  our  right — now  pay  attention,  boy — a yawning  fissure 

lay, 

As  if  an  earthquake’s  shock  had  split  the  mountain’s  side 
away. 

And  in  the  dismal  gulf,  far  down,  we  heard  the  angry  roar 

Of  a foaming  mountain  torrent,  that,  mayhap,  the  cleft  had 
wore, 

As  it  rushed  for  countless  ages  through  its  black  and  secret 
lair  ; 

But  no  matter  how  ’twas  formed,  my  lad,  the  yawning  gulf 
was  there. 

And  from  the  farther  side  a stone  projected  o’er  the 
gorge,— 

’Twas  strange  to  see  the  massive  rock  just  balanced  on  the 
verge  ; 

It  seemed  as  if  an  eagle’s  weight  the  ponderous  mass  of 
stone 

Would  topple  from  its  giddy  height,  and  send  it  crashing 
down. 

It  stretched  far  o’er  the  dark  abyss  ; but,  though  ’twere 
footing  good, 

’Twas  twenty  feet  or  more  from  off  the  side  on  which  we 
stood. 

Beyond  the  cleft  a gentle  slope  went  down  and  joined  the 
plain, — 

Now,  lad,  back  to  where  we  halted,  and  again  resume  the 
rein. 


630  JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 

I said  our  troops  were  routed.  Far  and  near  they  broke 
and  fled, 

The  grape-shot  tearing  through  them,  leaving  lanes  of 
mangled  dead. 

All  order  lost,  they  left  the  fight, — they  threw  their  arms 
away, 

And  joined  in  one  wild  panic  rout, — ah  ! ’twas  a bitter  day ! 

“But  did  I say  that  all  was  lost?  Nay,  one  brave  corps 
stood  fast, 

Determined  they  would  never  fly,  but  fight  it  to  the 
last. 

They  barred  the  Frenchman  from  his  prey,  and  his  whole 
fury  braved, — 

One  brief  hour  could  they  hold  their  ground,  the  army 
might  be  saved. 

Fresh  troops  were  hurrying  to  our  aid, — we  saw  their  glit- 
tering head, — 

Ah,  God  ! how  those  brave  hearts  were  raked  by  the  death- 
shower  of  lead  ! 

But  stand  they  did : they  never  flinched  nor  took  one  back- 
ward stride, 

They  sent  their  bayonets  home,  and  then  with  stubborn 
courage  died. 

But  few  were  left  of  that  brave  band  when  the  dread  hour 
had  passed, 

Still,  faint  and  few,  they  held  their  flag  above  them  to  the 
last. 

But  now  a cloud  of  horsemen,  like  a shadowy  avalanche, 

Sweeps  down : as  Pic  ton  sees  them,  e’en  his  cheek  is  seen 
to  blanch. 

They  were  not  awed,  that  little  band,  but  rallied  once 
again, 

And  sent  us  back  a farewell  cheer.  Then  burst  from  reck- 
less men 

The  anguished  cry,  ‘ God  help  them  ! ’ as  we  saw  the  feeble 
flash 

Of  their  last  defiant  volley,  when  upon  them  with  a crash 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES.  631 

Burst  the  gleaming  lines  of  riders, — one  by  one  they  dis- 
appear, 

And  the  chargers’  hoofs  are  trampling  on  the  last  of  that 
brave  square ! 

On  swept  the  squadrons ! Then  we  looked  where  last  the 
band  was  seen : 

A scarlet  heap  was  all  that  marked  the  place  where  they 
had  been ! 

Still  forward  spurred  the  horsemen,  eager  to  complete  the 
rout ; 

But  our  lines  had  been  reformed  now,  and  five  thousand 
guns  belched  out 

A reception  to  the  squadrons, — rank  on  rank  was  piled 
that  day 

Every  bullet  hissed  out  4 Vengeance  ! 5 as  it  whistled  on  its 
way. 

“ And  now  it  was,  with  maddened  hearts,  we  saw  a galling 
sight : 

A French  hussar  was  riding  close  beneath  us  on  the  right, — 

He  held  a British  standard  ! With  insulting  shout  he 
stood, 

And  waved  the  flag, — its  heavy  folds  drooped  down  with 
shame  and  blood, — 

The  blood  of  hearts  unconquered:  ’twas  the  flag  of  the 
stanch  corps 

That  had  fought  to  death  beneath  it, — it  was  heavy  with 
their  gore. 

The  foreign  dog ! I see  him  as  he  holds  the  standard  down, 

And  makes  his  charger  trample  on  its  colors  and  its 
crown ! 

But  his  life  soon  paid  the  forfeit : with  a cry  of  rage  and 
pain, 

Hilton  dashes  from  the  escort,  like  a tiger  from  his  chain. 

Nought  he  sees  but  that  ins ul ter  ; and  he  strikes  his 
frightened  horse 

With  his  clenched  hand,  and  spurs  him,  with  a bitter- 
spoken  curse, 


632  -JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 

Straight  as  bullet  from  a rifle — but,  great  Lord  ! he  has  not 

seen, 

In  his  angry  thirst  for  vengeance,  the  black  gulf  that  lies 
between  ! 

All  our  warning  shouts  unheeded,  starkly  on  he  headlong 
rides, 

And  lifts  his  horse,  with  bloody  spurs  deep  buried  in  his 
sides. 

God’s  mercy  ! does  he  see  the  gulf  ? Ha  ! now  his  purpose 
dawns 

Upon  our  minds,  as  nearer  still  the  rocky  fissure  yawns  : 

Where  from  the  farther  side  the  stone  leans  o’er  the 
stream  beneath, 

He  means  to  take  the  awful  leap ! Cold  horror  checks  our 
breath, 

And  still  and  mute  we  watch  him  now : he  nears  the  fear- 
ful place ; 

We  hear  him  shout  to  cheer  the  horse,  and  keep  the  head- 
long pace. 

Then  comes  a rush, — short  strides, — a blow! — the  horse 
bounds  wildly  on, 

Springs  high  in  air  o’er  the  abyss,  and  lands  upon  the 
stone  ! 

It  trembles,  topples  ’neath  their  weight!  it  sinks!  ha! 
bravely  done  ! 

Another  spring,— they  gain  the  side, — the  ponderous  rock 
is  gone 

With  crashing  roar,  a thousand  feet,  down  to  the  flood 
below, 

And  Hilton,  heedless  of  its  noise,  is  riding  at  the  foe  ! 

“ The  Frenchman  stared  in  wonder:  he  was  brave,  and 
would  not  run, 

’Twould  merit  but  a coward’s  brand  to  turn  and  fly  from 
one. 

But  still  he  shuddered  at  the  glance  from  ’neath  that 
knitted  brow : 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


633 


. He  knew  ’twould  be  a death  fight,  but  there  was  no  shrink- 
ing now. 

He  pressed  his  horse  to  meet  the  shock : straight  at  him 
Hilton  made, 

And  as  they  closed  the  Frenchman’s  cut  fell  harmless  on 
his  blade  ; 

But  scarce  a moment’s  time  had  passed  ere,  spurring  from 
the  field, 

A troop  of  cuirassiers  closed  round  and  called  on  him  to 
yield. 

One  glance  of  scorn  he  threw  them, — all  his  answer  in  a 
frown, — 

And  riding  at  their  leader  with  one  sweep  he  cut  him 
down  ; 

Then  aimed  at  him  who  held  the  flag  a cut  of  crushing  might, 

And  split  him  to  the  very  chin  ! — a horrid,  ghastly  sight ! 

He  seized  the  standard  from  his  hand  ; but  now  the  French- 
men close, 

And  that  stout  soldier,  all  alone,  fights  with  a hundred  foes  ! 

They  cut  and  cursed, — a dozen  swords  were  whistling  round 
his  head  ; 

He  could  not  guard  on  every  side, — from  fifty  wounds  he 
bled. 

His  saber  crashed  through  helm  and  blade,  as  though  it 
were  a mace  ; 

He  cut  their  steel  cuirasses  and  he  slashed  them  o’er  the 
face. 

One  tall  dragoon  closed  on  him,  but  he  wheeled  his  horse 
around, 

And  cloven  through  the  helmet  went  the  trooper  to  the 
ground. 

But  his  saber  blade  was  broken  by  the  fury  of  the  blow, 

And  he  hurled  the  useless,  bloody  hilt  against  the  nearest 
foe ; 

Then  furled  the  colors  round  the  pole,  and,  like  a leveled 
lance, 

He  charged  with  that  red  standard  through  the  bravest 
troops  of  France  ! 


634 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


His  horse,  as  lion-hearted,  scarcely  needed  to  be  urged, 

And  steed  and  rider  bit  the  dust  before  him  as  he  charged. 

Straight  on  he  rode,  and  down  they  went,  till  he  had 
cleared  the  ranks, 

Then  once  again  he  loosed  the  rein  and  struck  his  horse’s 
flanks. 

A cheer  broke  from  the  French  dragoons, — a loud,  admir- 
ing shout ! — 

As  off  he  rode,  and  o’er  him  shook  the  tattered  colors  out. 

Still  might  they  ride  him  down  : they  scorned  to  fire  or  to 
pursue, — 

Brave  hearts  ! they  cheered  him  to  our  lines, — their  army 
cheering,  too  ! 

And  we — what  did  we  do?  you  ask.  Well,  boy,  we  did 
not  cheer, 

Nor  not  one  sound  of  welcome  reached  our  hero  comrade’s 
ear  ; 

But,  as  he  rode  along  the  ranks,  each  soldier’s  head  was 
bare, — 

Our  hearts  were  far  too  full  for  cheers, — we  welcomed  him 
with  prayer. 

Ah,  boy,  we  loved  that  dear  old  flag ! — ay,  loved  it  so,  we 
cried 

Like  children,  as  we  saw  it  wave  in  all  its  tattered  pride  ! 

No,  boy,  no  cheers  to  greet  him,  though  he  played  a noble 
part, — 

We  only  prayed  ‘ God  bless  him  ! ’ but  that  prayer  came 
from  the  heart. 

He  knew  we  loved  him  for  it, — he  could  see  it  in  our  tears, — 

And  such  silent  earnest  love  as  that  is  better,  boy,  than 
cheers. 

Next  day  we  fought  the  Frenchman,  and  we  drove  him 
back,  of  course, 

Though  we  lost  some  goodly  soldiers,  and  old  Picton  lost  a 
horse. 

But  there  I’ve  said  enough:  your  mother’s  warning  finger 
shook, — 

Mind,  never  be  a soldier,  boy ! — now  let  me  have  a smoke.” 


635 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


HAUNTED  BY  TIGERS. 


NATHAN  BEANS  and  William  Lambert  were  two 
wild  New  England  boys, 

Known  from  infancy  to  revel  only  in  forbidden  joys. 

Many  a mother  of  Nantucket  bristled  when  she  heard  them 
come, 

With  a horrid  skulking  whistle,  tempting  her  good  lad 
from  home. 

But  for  all  maternal  bristling  little  did  they  seem  to  care, 
And  theyloved  each  other  dearly,  did  this  good-for-nothing 
pair. 

So  they  lived  till  eighteen  summers  found  them  in  the 
same  repute, — 

They  had  well-developed  muscles,  and  loose  characters  to 
boot. 

Then  they  did  what  wild  Nantucket  boys  have  never  failed 
to  do, — 

Went  and  filled  two  oily  bunks  among  a whaler’s  oily  crew. 
And  the  mothers, — ah  ! they  raised  their  hands  and  blessed 
the  lucky  day, 

While  Nantucket  waved  its  handkerchief  to  see  them  sail 
away. 

On  a four  years’  cruise  they  started  in  the  brave  old 
“ Patience  Parr,” 

And  were  soon  initiated  in  the  mysteries  of  tar. 

There  they  found  the  truth  that  whalers’  tales  are  unsub- 
stantial wiles, — 

They  were  sick  and  sore  and  sorry  ere  they  passed  the 
Western  Isles ; 

And  their  captain,  old-man  Sculpin,  gave  their  fancies  little 
scope, 

For  he  argued  with  a marlinspike  and  reasoned  with  a 
rope. 


636  JOHN  BOYLE  O’ REILLY. 

But  they  stuck  together  bravely,  they  were  Ishmaels  with 
the  crew  : 

Nathan’s  voice  was  never  raised  but  Bill’s  support  was 
uttered  too ; 

And  whenever  Beans  was  floored  by  Sculpin’  s cruel  mar- 
linspike, 

Down  beside  him  went  poor  Lambert,  for  his  hand  was 
clenched  to  strike. 

So  they  passed  two  years  in  cruising,  till  one  breathless 
burning  day 

The  old  “ Patience  Parr”  in  Sunda  Straits*  with  flapping 
canvas  lay. 

On  her  starboard  side  Sumatra’s  woods  were  dark  beneath 
the  glare, 

And  on  her  port  stretched  Java,  slumbering  in  the  yellow 
air, — 

Slumbering  as  the  jaguar  slumbers,  as  the  tropic  ocean 
sleeps, 

Smooth  and  smiling  on  its  surface  with  a devil  in  its 
deeps. 

So  swooned  Java’s  moveless  forest,  but  the  jungle  round 
its  root 

Knew  the  rustling  anaconda  and  the  tiger’s  padded 
foot. 

There  in  Nature’s  rankest  garden,  Nature’s  worst  alone  is 
rife, 

And  a glorious  land  is  wild-beast  ruled  for  want  of  human 
life. 

Scarce  a harmless  thing  moved  on  it,  not  a living  soul  was 
near 

From  the  frowning  rocks  of  Java  Head  right  northward  to 
Anjier. 

Grestless  swells,  like  wind-raised  canvas,  made  the  whaler 
rise  and  dip, 

Else  she  lay  upon  the  water  like  a paralytic  ship ; 


* The  Straits  of  Sunda,  seven  miles  wide  at  the  southern  extremity,  lie  between 
Sumatra  and  Java. 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


637 


And  beneath  a topsail  awning  lay  the  lazy,  languid  crew, 

Drinking  in  the  precious  coolness  of  the  shadow, — all  save 
two : 

Two  poor  Ishmaels, — they  were  absent,  Heaven  help  them! — 
roughly  tied 

’Neath  the  blistering  cruel  sun-glare  in  the  fore-chains,  side 
by  side. 

Side  by  side  as  it  was  always,  each  one  with  a word  of 
cheer 

For  the  other,  and  for  his  sake  bravely  choking  back  the 
tear. 

Side  by  side,  their  pain  or  pastime  never  yet  seemed  good 
for  one ; 

But  whenever  pain  came,  each  in  secret  wished  the  other 
gone. 

You  who  stop  at  home  and  saunter  o’er  your  flower  scat- 
tered path, 

With  life’s  corners  velvet  cushioned,  have  you  seen  a 
tyrant’s  wrath  ? — 

Wrath,  the  rude  and  reckless  demon,  not  the  drawing- 
room display 

Of  an  anger  led  by  social  lightning-rods  upon  its  way. 

Ah!  my  friends,  wrath’s  raw  materials  on  the  land  may 
sometimes  be, 

But  the  manufactured  article  is  only  found  at  sea. 

And  the  wrath  of  old-man  Sculpin  was  of  texture  Number 
One : 

Never  absent, — when  the  man  smiled  it  was  hidden,  but 
not  gone. 

Old  church-members  of  Nantucket  knew  him  for  a shining 
lamp, 

But  his  chronic  Christian  spirit  was  of  pharisaic  stamp. 

When  ashore,  he  prayed  aloud  of  how  he’d  sinned  and 
been  forgiven, — 

How  his  evil  ways  had  brought  him  ’thin  an  ace  of  losing 
heaven ; 


638 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


Thank  the  Lord  ! his  eyes  were  opened,  and  so  on ; but 
when  the  ship 

Was  just  ready  for  a voyage,  you  could  see  old  Sculpin’ s 
lip 

Have  a sort  of  nervous  tremble,  like  a carter’s  long-leaslied 
whip 

Ere  it  cracks ; and  so  the  skipper’s  lip  was  trembling  for 
an  oath 

At  the  watch  on  deck  for  idleness,  the  watch  below  for 
sloth, 

For  the  leash  of  his  anathemas  was  long  enough  for  both. 

Well,  ’twas  burning  noon  off  Java:  Beans  and  Lambert 

in  the  chains 

Sank  their  heads,  and  all  was  silent  but  the  voices  of  their 
pains. 

Night  came  ere  their  bonds  were  loosened ; then  the  boys 
sank  down  and  slept, 

And  the  dew  in  place  of  loved  ones  on  their  wounded 
bodies  wept. 

All  was  still  within  the  whaler, — on  the  sea  no  fanning 
breeze, 

And  the  moon  alone  was  moving  over  Java’s  gloomy 
trees. 

Midnight  came, — one  sleeper’s  waking  glance  went  out 
the  moon  to  meet : 

Nathan  rose,  and  turned  from  Lambert,  who  still  slumbered 
at  his  feet. 

Out  toward  Java  went  his  vision,  as  if  something  in  the 
air 

Came  with  promises  of  kindness  and  of  peace  to  be  found 
there. 

Then  toward  the  davits  moved  he,  where  the  lightest  whale- 
boat hung ; 

And  he  worked  with  silent  caution  till  upon  the  sea  she 
swung, 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES.  639 

When  he  paused,  and  looked  at  Lambert,  and  the  spirit  in 
him  cried 

Not  to  leave  him,  but  to  venture,  as  since  childhood,  side 
by  side  ; 

And  the  spirit’s  cry  was  answered,  for  he  touched  the 
sleeper’s  lip, 

Who  awoke  and  heard  of  Nathan’s  plan  to  leave  th’ 
accursed  ship. 


When  ’twas  told,  they  rose  in  silence,  and  looked  outward 
to  the  land, 

But  they  only  saw  Nantucket,  with  its  homely,  boat-lined 
strand ; 

But  they  saw  it — oh ! so  plainly — through  the  glass  of 
coming  doom. 

Then  they  crept  into  the  whale-boat,  and  pulled  toward 
the  forest’s  gloom, — 

All  their  suffering  clear  that  moment,  like  the  moonlight 
on  their  wake, 

Now  contracting,  now  expanding,  like  a phosphorescent 
snake. 

Hours  speed  on:  the  dark  horizon  yet  shows  scarce  a 
streak  of  gray 

When  old  Sculpin  comes  on  deck  to  walk  his  restlessness 
away. 

All  the  scene  is  still  and  solemn,  and  mayhap  the  man’s 
cold  heart 

Feels  its  teaching,  for  the  wild-beast  cries  from  shoreward 
make  him  start 

As  if  they  had  warning  in  them,  and  he  o’er  its  meaning 
pored, 

Till  at  length  one  shriek  from  Java  splits  the  darkness  like 
a sword ; 

And  he  almost  screams  in  answer,  such  the  nearness  of  the 
cry, 

As  he  clutches  at  the  rigging  with  a horror  in  his 

eye, 


640  JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 

And  with  faltering  accents  mutters,  as  against  the  mast  he 
leans, 

“ Darn  the  tigers!  that  one  shouted  with  the  mice  of 
Nathan  Beans  ! ’ ’ 

When  the  boys  were  missed  soon  after,  Sculpin  never 
breathed  a word 

Of  his  terror  in  the  morning  at  the  fearful  sound  he’d 
heard ; 

But  he  entered  in  the  log-book,  and  9 twas  witnessed  by  the 
mates, 

Just  their  names,  and  following  after,  “ Ban  away  in 
Sunda  Straits.” 

Two  years  after,  Captain  Sculpin  saw  again  the  Yankee 
shore, 

With  the  comfortable  feeling  that  he’d  go  to  sea  no  more. 

And  ’twas  strange  the  way  he  altered  when  he  saw  Nan- 
tucket light : 

Holy  lines  spread  o’er  his  face,  and  chased  the  old  ones 
out  of  sight. 

And  for  many  a year  thereafter  did  his  zeal  spread  far  and 
wide, 

And  with  all  his  pious  doings  was  the  township  edified  ; 

For  he  led  the  sacred  singing  in  an  unctuous,  nasal  tone, 

And  he  looked  as  if  the  sermon  and  the  scriptures  were  his 
own. 

But  one  day  the  white-haired  preacher  spoke  of  how 
God’s  justice  fell 

Soon  or  late  with  awful  sureness  on  the  man  whose  heart 
could  tell 

Of  a wrong  done  to  the  widow  or  the  orphan,  and  he  said 

That  such  wrongs  were  ever  living,  though  the  injured 
ones  were  dead. 

And  old  Sculpin’ s heart  was  writhing,  though  his  heavy 
eyes  were  closed, — 

For,  despite  his  solemn  sanctity,  at  sermon  times  he  dozed  ; 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


641 


But  his  half-awakened  senses  heard  the  preacher  speak  of 
death 

And  of  wrongs  done  unto  orphans,  and  he  dreamed  with 
wheezing  breath 

That  cold  hands  were  tearing  from  his  heart  its  pharisaic 
screens, 

That  the  preacher  was  a tiger  with  the  voice  of  Nathan 
Beans ! 

And  he  shrieked  and  jumped  up  wildly,  and  upon  the  seat 
stood  he, 

As  if  standing  on  the  whaler  looking  outward  on  the  sea  ; 

And  he  clutched  as  at  the  rigging  with  a horror  in  his  eye, 

For  he  saw  the  woods  of  Java  and  he  heard  that  human 
cry, 

As  he  crouched  and  cowered  earthward.  And  the  simple 
folk  around 

Stood  with  looks  of  kindly  sympathy:  they  raised  him 
from  the  ground, 

And  they  brought  him  half  unconscious  to  the  humble 
chapel  door, 

Whence  he  fled  as  from  a scourging,  and  he  entered  it  no 
more  ; 

For  the  sight  of  that  old  preacher  brought  the  horror  to 
his  face, 

And  he  dare  not  meet  his  neighbors’  honest  eyes  within 
the  place, 

For  his  conscience  like  a mirror  rose  and  showed  the  dis- 
mal scenes, 

Where  the  tiger  yelled  forever  with  the  voice  of  Nathan 
Beans. 


THE  WORD  AND  THE  DEED. 


THE  Word  was  first,  says  the  revelation  : 
Justice  is  older  than  error  or  strife  ; 
The  Word  preceded  the  Incarnation 
As  symbol  and  type  of  law  and  life. 


642 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


And  always  so  are  the  mighty  changes  : 

The  word  must  be  sown  in  the  heart  like  seed ; 

Men’s  hands  must  tend  it,  their  lives  defend  it, 

Till  it  burst  into  flower  as  a deathless  Deed. 

The  primal  truth  neither  dies  nor  slumbers, 

But  lives  as  the  test  of  the  common  right, 

That  the  laws  proclaimed  by  the  sworded  numbers 
May  stand  arraigned  in  the  people’s  sight. 

The  Word  is  great,  and  no  Deed  is  greater, 

When  both  are  of  God,  to  follow  or  lead  ; 

But,  alas,  for  the  truth  when  the  Word  comes  later, 
W ith  questioned  steps,  to  sustain  the  Deed. 

Not  the  noblest  acts  can  be  true  solutions  ; 

The  soul  must  be  sated  before  the  eye, 

Else  the  passionate  glory  of  revolutions 
Shall  pass  like  the  flames  that  flash  and  die. 

But  forever  the  gain  when  the  heart’s  convictions, 
Booted  in  nature  the  masses  lead ; 

The  cries  of  rebellion  are  benedictions 
When  the  Word  has  flowered  in  a perfect  Deed. 


WESTEBTsT  AU STB  ALIA. 


Nation  of  sun  and  sin , 

Thy  flowers  and  crimes  are  red , 
And  thy  heart  is  sore  within 
While  the  glory  crowns  thy  head . 
Land  of  the  songless  birds , 

What  was  thine  ancient  crime , 
Burning  through  lapse  of  time 
Like  a prophet' s cursing  words  f 

Aloes  and  myrrh  and  tears 
Mix  in  thy  bitter  wine  : 

Dr  ink , while  the  cup  is  thine , 
Drink , /or  the  draught  is  sign 
Of  thy  reign  in  the  coming  years . 


644 


PROLOGUE. 


Nor  gold  nor  silver  are  the  words  set  here , 

Nor  rich-wrought  chasing  on  design  of  art ; 

But  rugged  relics  of  an  unknown  sphere 

Where  fortune  chanced  I played  one  time  a part. 
XJnthought  of  here  the  critic  blame  or  praise , 

These  recollections  all  their  faults  atone  ; 

To  hold  the  scenes , I've  writ  of  men  and  ways 
Uncouth  and  rough  as  Austral  ironstone. 

It  may  be,  I have  left  the  higher  gleams 
Of  skies  and  flowers  unheeded  or  forgot ; 

It  may  be  so, — but,  looking  back , it  seems 
When  I was  with  them  I beheld  them  not. 

I was  no  rambling  poet,  but  a man 
Hard  pressed  to  dig  and  delve,  with  naught  of  ease 
The  hot  day  through,  save  when  the  evening''  s fan 
Of  sea-winds  rustled  through  the  kindly  trees. 

It  may  be  so  ; but  when  I think  I smile 
At  my  poor  hand  and  brain  to  paint  the  charms 
Of  GoW  s first-blazoned  canvas  ! here  the  aisle 
Moonlit  and  deep  of  reaching  gothic  arms 
From  towering  gum,  mahogany,  and  palm, 

And  odorous  jam  and  sandal ; there  the  growth 
Of  arm-long  velvet  leaves  grown  hoar  in  calm, — 

In  calm  unbroken  since  their  luscious  youth. 

How  can  1 show  you  all  the  silent  birds 

With  strange  metallic  glinting s on  the  wing? 

645 


646 


PROLOGUE. 


Or  how  tell  half  their  sadness  in  cold  words , — 
The  poor  dumb  lutes,  the  birds  that  never  sing  t 
Of  wondrous  parrot-greens  and  iris  hue 
Of  sensuous  flower  and  of  gleaming  snake, — 
Ah  ! what  I see  I long  that  so  might  you, 

But  of  these  things  what  picture  can  I make  f 

Sometime,  maybe,  a man  will  wander  there,— 

A mind  God-gifted,  and  not  dull  and  weak  ; 
And  he  will  come  and  paint  that  land  so  fair, 
And  show  the  beauties  of  which  I but  speak. 
But  in  the  hard,  sad  days  that  there  I spent , 

My  mind  absorbed  rude  pictures  : these  I show 
As  best  I may,  and  just  with  this  intent, — 

To  tell  some  things  that  all  folk  may  not  know. 


WESTERN  AUSTRALIA. 


O BEAUTEOUS  Southland!  land  of  yellow  air, 

That  hangeth  o'er  thee  slumbering,  and  doth  hold 
The  moveless  foliage  of  thy  valleys  fair 
And  wooded  hills,  like  aureole  of  gold. 

O thou,  discovered  ere  the  fitting  time, 

Ere  Nature  in  completion  turned  thee  forth  ! 

Ere  aught  was  finished  but  thy  peerless  clime, 

Thy  virgin  breath  allured  the  amorous  North. 

O land,  God  made  thee  wondrous  to  the  eye  ! 

But  His  sweet  singers  thou  hast  never  heard  ; 

He  left  thee,  meaning  to  come  by-and-by, 

And  give  rich  voice  to  every  bright-winged  bird. 

He  painted  with  fresh  hues  thy  myriad  flowers, 

But  left  them  scentless : ah  ! their  woeful  dole, 

Like  sad  reproach  of  their  Creator’s  powers, — 

To  make  so  sweet  fair  bodies,  void  of  soul. 

He  gave  thee  trees  of  odorous  precious  wood ; 

But,  ’midst  them  all,  bloomed  not  one  tree  of  fruit. 

He  looked,  but  said  not  that  His  work  was  good, 

When  leaving  thee  all  perfumeless  and  mute. 

He  blessed  thy  flowers  with  honey : every  bell 
Looks  earthward,  sunward,  with  a yearning  wist ; 

But  no  bee-lover  ever  notes  the  swell 
Of  hearts,  like  lips,  a-hungering  to  be  kist. 

O strange  land,  thou  art  virgin  ! thou  art  more 
Than  fig-tree  barren  ! Would  that  I could  paint 

647 


648 


JOHN  BOYLE  0*  REILLY. 


For  others’  eyes  the  glory  of  the  shore 
Where  last  I saw  thee ; but  the  senses  faint 

In  soft  delicious  dreaming  when  they  drain 
Thy  wine  of  color.  Virgin  fair  thou  art, 

All  sweetly  fruitful,  waiting  with  soft  pain 
The  spouse  who  comes  to  wake  thy  sleeping  heart. 


THE  DUKITE  SNAKE. 


A WEST  AUSTRALIAN  BUSHMAN’S  STORY. 


'VTTELL,  mate,  you’ve  asked  me  about  a fellow 
VV  You  met  to-day,  in  a black-and-yellow 
Chain-gang  suit,  with  a peddler’s  pack, 

Or  with  some  such  burden,  strapped  to  his  back. 
Did  you  meet  him  square  ? No,  passed  you  by  ? 
Well,  if  you  had,  and  had  looked  in  his  eye, 
You’d  have  felt  for  your  irons  then  and  there ; 
For  the  light  in  his  eye  is  a madman’s  glare. 

Ay,  mad,  poor  fellow ! I know  him  well, 

And  if  you’re  not  sleepy  just  yet,  I’ll  tell 
His  story, — a strange  one  as  ever  you  heard 
Or  read;  but  I’ll  vouch  for  it,  every  word. 


You  just  wait  a minute,  mate : I must  see 
How  that  damper’s  doing,  and  make  some  tea. 

You  smoke?  That’s  good  ; for  there’s  plenty  of  weed 
In  that  wallaby  skin.  Does  your  horse  feed 
In  the  hobbles?  Well,  he’s  got  good  feed  here, 

And  my  own  old  bush  mare  wont  interfere. 

Done  with  that  meat  ? Throw  it  there  to  the  dogs, 
And  fling  on  a couple  of  banksia  logs. 


And  now  for  the  story.  That  man  who  goes 

Through  the  bush  with  the  pack  and  the  convict’s  clothes 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


649 


Has  been  mad  for  years  ; but  he  does  no  harm, 

And  our  lonely  settlers  feel  no  alarm 

When  they  see  or  meet  him.  Poor  Dave  Sloane 

Was  a settler  once,  and  a friend  of  my  own. 

Some  eight  years  back,  in  the  spring  of  the  year, 

Dave  came  from  Scotland,  and  settled  here. 

A splendid  young  fellow  he  was  just  then, 

And  one  of  the  bravest  and  truest  men 
That  I ever  met : he  was  kind  as  a woman 
To  all  who  needed  a friend,  and  no  man — 

Not  even  a convict — met  with  his  scorn, 

For  David  Sloane  was  a gentleman  born. 

Ay,  friend,  a gentleman,  though  it  sounds  queer : 
There’s  plenty  of  blue  blood  flowing  out  here, 

And  some  younger  sons  of  your  “ upper  ten  ” 

Can  be  met  with  here,  first-rate  bushmen. 

Why,  friend,  I—  Bah  ! curse  that  dog  ! you  see 
This  talking  so  much  has  affected  me. 

Well,  Sloane  came  here  with  an  ax  and  a gun  ; . 

He  bought  four  miles  of  a sandal -wood  run. 

This  bush  at  that  time  was  a lonesome  place, 

So  lonesome  the  sight  of  a white  man’ s face 
Was  a blessing,  unless  it  came  at  night, 

And  peered  in  your  hut,  with  the  cunning  fright 
Of  a runaway  convict ; and  even  they 
Were  welcome,  for  talk’s  sake,  while  they  could  stay. 
Dave  lived  with  me  here  for  a while,  and  learned 
The  tricks  of  the  bush, — how  the  snare  was  laid 
In  the  wallaby  track,  how  traps  were  made, 

How  ’possums  and  kangaroo  rats  were  killed, 

And  when  that  was  learned,  I helped  him  to  build 
From  mahogany  slabs  a good  bush  hut, 

And  showed  him  how  sandal- wood  logs  were  cut. 

I lived  up  there  with  him  days  and  days, 

For  I loved  the  lad  for  his  honest  ways. 

I had  only  one  fault  to  find  : at  first 

Pave  worked  too  hard  ; for  a lad  who  was  nursed,  - 


650 


JOHN  BOYLE  o’KEILLY. 


As  he  was,  in  idleness,  it  was  strange 

How  he  cleared  that  sandal-wood  off  his  range. 

From  the  morning  light  till  the  light  expired 
He  was  always  working,  he  never  tired ; 

Till  at  length  I began  to  think  his  will 
Was  too  much  settled  on  wealth,  and  still 
When  I looked  at  the  lad’s  brown  face,  and  eye 
Clear  open,  my  heart  gave  such  thought  the  lie. 

But  one  day — for  he  read  my  mind — he  laid 
His  hand  on  my  shoulder : “ Don’t  be  afraid,” 

Said  he,  “ that  I’m  seeking  alone  for  pelf. 

I work  hard,  friend  ; but  ’tis  not  for  myself.” 

And  he  told  me  then,  in  his  quiet  tone, 

Of  a girl  in  Scotland,  who  was  his  own, — 

His  wife, — ’twas  for  her : ’twas  all  he  could  say, 

And  his  clear  eye  brimmed  as  he  turned  away. 

After  that  he  told  me  the  simple  tale  : 

They  had  married  for  love,  and  she  was  to  sail 
For  Australia  when  he  wrote  home  and  told 
The  oft-watched-for  story  of  finding  gold. 

In  a year  he  wrote,  and  his  news  was  good  : 

He  had  bought  some  cattle  and  sold  his  wood. 

He  said,  “ Darling,  I’ve  only  a hut, — but  come.” 
Friend,  a husband’s  heart  is  a true  wife’s  home  ; 
And  he  knew  she’d  come.  Then  he  turned  his  hand 
To  make  neat  the  house,  and  prepare  the  land 
For  his  crops  and  vines  ; and  he  made  that  place 
Put  on  such  a smiling  and  homelike  face, 

That  when  she  came,  and  he  showed  her  round 
His  sandal -wood  and  his  crops  in  the  ground, 

And  spoke  of  the  future,  they  cried  for  joy, 

The  husband’s  arm  clasping  his  wife  and  boy. 

Well,  friend,  if  a little  of  heaven’s  best  bliss 
Ever  comes  from  the  upper  world  to  this, 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES.  651 

It  came  into  that  manly  bushman’s  life, 

And  circled  him  round  with  the  arms  of  his  wife. 

God  bless  that  bright  memory  ! Even  to  me, 

A rough,  lone]y  man,  did  she  seem  to  be, 

While  living,  an  angel  of  God’s  pure  love, 

And  now  I could  pray  to  her  face  above. 

And  David  he  loved  her  as  only  a man 
With  a heart  as  large  as  was  his  heart  can. 

I wondered  how  they  could  have  lived  apart, 

For  he  was  her  idol,  and  she  his  heart. 

Friend,  there  isn’ t much  more  of  the  tale  to  tell : 

I was  talking  of  angels  awhile  since.  Well, 

Now  I’ll  change  to  a devil, — ay,  to  a devil ! 

You  needn’t  start : if  a spirit  of  evil 
Ever  came  to  this  world  its  hate  to  slake 
On  mankind,  it  came  as  a Dukite  Snake. 

Like  f Like  the  pictures  you’ve  seen  of  Sin, 

A long  red  snake, — as  if  what  was  within 

Was  fire  that  gleamed  through  his  glistening  skin. 

And  his  eyes ! — if  you  could  go  down  to  hell 
And  come  back  to  your  fellows  here  and  tell 
What  the  fire  was  like,  you  could  find  no  thing, 

Here  below  on  the  earth,  or  up  in  the  sky, 

To  compare  it  to  but  a Dukite’ s eye  ! 

Now,  mark  you,  these  Dukites  don’t  go  alone: 

There’s  another  near  when  you  see  but  one  ; 

And  beware  you  of  killing  that  one  you  see 
Without  finding  the  other  ; for  you  may  be 
More  than  twenty  miles  from  the  spot  that  night, 

When  camped,  but  you’re  tracked  by  the  lone  Dukite, 
That  will  follow  your  trail  like  Death  or  Fate, 

And  kill  you  as  sure  as  you  killed  its  mate  ! 

Well,  poor  Dave  Sloane  had  his  young  wife  here 
Three  months, — ’twas  just  this  time  of  the  year. 


652 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


He  had  teamed  some  sandal- wood  to  the  Vasse, 

And  was  homeward  bound,  when  he  saw  in  the  grass 
A long  red  snake : he  had  never  been  told 
Of  the  Dukite’ s ways, — he  jumped  to  the  road, 

And  smashed  its  flat  head  with  the  bullock-goad  ! 

He  was  proud  of  the  red  skin,  so  he  tied 
Its  tail  to  the  cart,  and  the  snake’s  blood  dyed 
The  bush  on  the  path  he  followed  that  night. 

He  was  early  home,  and  the  dead  Dukite 
Was  flung  at  the  door  to  be  skinned  next  day. 

At  sunrise  next  morning  he  started  away 
To  hunt  up  his  cattle.  A three  hours’  ride 
Brought  him  back  : he  gazed  on  his  home  with  pride 
And  joy  in  his  heart ; he  jumped  from  his  horse 
And  entered — to  look  on  his  young  wife’s  corse, 

And  his  dead  child  clutching  its  mother’s  clothes 

As  in  fright ; and  there,  as  he  gazed,  arose 

From  her  breast,  where  ’ twas  resting,  the  gleaming  head 

Of  the  terrible  Dukite,  as  if  it  said, 

“ Tve  had  vengeance , my  foe : you  took  all  I had” 

And  so  had  the  snake — David  Sloane  was  mad ! 

I rode  to  his  hut  just  by  chance  that  night, 

And  there  on  the  threshold  the  clear  moonlight 
Showed  the  two  snakes  dead.  I pushed  in  the  door 
With  an  awful  feeling  of  coming  woe : 

The  dead  was  stretched  on  the  moonlit  floor, 

The  man  held  the  hand  of  his  wife, — his  pride, 

His  poor  life’s  treasure, — and  crouched  by  her  side. 

0 God  ! I sank  with  the  weight  of  the  blow. 

1 touched  and  called  him  : he  heeded  me  not, 

So  I dug  her  grave  in  a quiet  spot, 

And  lifted  them  both, — her  boy  on  her  breast, — 

And  laid  them  down  in  the  shade  to  rest. 

Then  I tried  to  take  my  poor  friend  away, 

But  he  cried  so  woefully,  “ Let  me  stay 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


653 


Till  she  comes  again  ! ” that  I had  no  heart 

To  try  to  persuade  him  then  to  part 

From  all  that  was  left  to  him  here, — her  grave ; 

So  I stayed  by  his  side  that  night,  and,  save 
One  heart- cutting  cry,  he  uttered  no  sound, — 

O God  ! that  wail — like  the  wail  of  a hound  ! 

’Tis  six  long  years  since  I heard  that  cry, 

But 5 twill  ring  in  my  ears  till  the  day  I die. 

Since  that  fearful  night  no  one  has  heard 
Poor  David  Sloane  utter  sound  or  word. 

You  have  seen  to-day  how  he  always  goes : 

He’s  been  given  that  suit  of  convict’s  clothes 
By  some  prison  officer.  On  his  back 
You  noticed  a load  like  a peddler’s  pack? 

Well,  that’s  what  he  lives  for : when  reason  went, 
Still  memory  lived,  for  his  days  are  spent 
In  searching  for  Dukites  ; and  year  by  year 
That  bundle  of  skins  is  growing.  ’Tis  clear 
That  the  Lord  out  of  evil  some  good  still  takes  ; 
For  he’s  clearing  this  bush  of  the  Dukite  snakes. 


THE  MONSTER  DIAMOND. 


A TALE  OF  THE  PENAL  COLONY  OF  WEST  AUSTRALIA. 


“ T’LL  have  it,  I tell  you  ! Curse  you ! — there  ! ” 

JL  The  long  knife  glittered,  was  sheathed,  and  was  bare. 
The  sawyer  staggered  and  tripped  and  fell, 

And  failing  he  uttered  a frightened  yell : 

His  face  to  the  sky,  he  shuddered  and  gasped. 

And  tried  to  put  from  him  the  man  he  had  grasped 
A moment  before  in  the  terrible  strife. 

“I’ll  have  it,  I tell  you,  or  have  your  life  ! 


654 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 

Where  is  it  ? ” The  sawyer  grew  weak,  but  still 
His  brown  face  gleamed  with  a desperate  will. 

“ Where  is  it  ? ” he  heard,  and  the  red  knife’s  drip 
In  his  slayer’s  hand  fell  down  on  his  lip. 

“Will  you  give  it  ? ” “ Never  ! ” A curse,  the  knife 

Was  raised  and  buried. 

Thus  closed  the  life 
Of  Samuel  Jones,  known  as  “ Number  Ten  ” 

On  his  Ticket-of-Leave  ; and  of  all  the  men 
In  the  Western  Colony,  bond  or  free, 

None  had  manlier  heart  or  hand  than  he. 

In  digging  a sawpit,  while  all  alone, — 

For  his  mate  was  sleeping, — Sam  struck  a stone 
With  the  edge  of  the  spade,  and  it  gleamed  like  fire, 
And  looked  at  Sam  from  its  bed  in  the  mire, 

Till  he  dropped  the  spade  and  stooped  and  raised 
The  wonderful  stone  that  glittered  and  blazed 
As  if  it  were  mad  at  the  spade’s  rude  blow ; 

But  its  blaze  set  the  sawyer’s  heart  aglow 

As  he  looked  and  trembled,  then  turned  him  round, 

And  crept  from  the  pit,  and  lay  on  the  ground, 

Looking  over  the  mold-heap  at  the  camp 

Where  his  mate  still  slept.  Then  down  to  the  swamp 

He  ran  with  the  stone,  and  washed  it  bright, 

And  felt  like  a drunken  man  at  the  sight 
Of  a diamond  pure  as  spring- water  and  sun, 

And  larger  than  ever  man’s  eyes  looked  on  ! 

Then  down  sat  Sam  with  the  stone  on  his  knees, 

And  fancies  came  to  him,  like  swarms  of  bees 
To  a sugar-creamed  hive  ; and  he  dreamed  awake 
Of  the  carriage  and  four  in  which  he’d  take 
His  pals  from  the  Dials  to  Drury  Lane, 

The  silks  and  the  satins  for  Susan  Jane, 

The  countless  bottles  of  brandy  and  beer 
He’d  call  for  and  pay  for,  and  every  year 


655 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 

The  dinner  he’d  give  to  the  Brummagem  lads, — 

He’d  be  king  among  cracksmen  and  chief  among  pads, 
And  he’d  sport  a — 

Over  him  stooped  his  mate, 

A pick  in  his  hand,  and  his  face  all  hate. 

Sam  saw  the  shadow,  and  guessed  the  pick, 

And  closed  his  dream  with  a spring  so  quick 
The  purpose  was  baffled  of  Aaron  Mace, 

And  the  sawyer  mates  stood  face  to  face. 

Sam  folded  his  arms  across  his  chest, 

Having  thrust  the  stone  in  his  loose  shirt-breast, 
While  he  tried  to  think  where  he  dropped  the  spade. 
But  Aaron  Mace  wore  a long,  keen  blade 
In  his  belt, — he  drew  it, — sprang  on  his  man : 

What  happened,  you  read  when  the  tale  began. 

Then  he  looked — the  murderer,  Aaron  Mace — 

At  the  gray-blue  lines  in  the  dead  man’ s face ; 

And  he  turned  away,  for  he  feared  its  frown 
More  in  death  than  life.  Then  he  knelt  him  down, — 
Not  to  pray, — but  he  shrank  from  the  staring  eyes, 
And  felt  in  the  breast  for  the  fatal  prize. 

And  this  was  the  man,  and  this  was  the  way 
That  he  took  the  stone  on  its  natal  day ; 

And  for  this  he  was  cursed  for  evermore 
By  the  West  Australian  Koh-i-nor. 

In  the  half- dug  pit  the  corpse  was  thrown, 

And  the  murderer  stood  in  the  camp  alone. 

Alone  \ No,  no  ! never  more  was  he 
To  part  from  the  terrible  company 
Of  that  gray-blue  face  and  the  bleeding  breast 
And  the  staring  eyes  in  their  awful  rest. 

The  evening  closed  on  the  homicide, 

And  the  blood  of  the  buried  sawyer  cried 
Through  the  night  to  God,  and  the  shadows  dark 
That  crossed  the  camp  had  the  stiff  and  stark 
And  horrible  look  of  a murdered  man  ! 


656 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


Then  he  piled  the  fire,  and  crept  within 
The  ring  of  its  light,  that  closed  him  in 
Like  tender  mercy,  and  drove  away 
For  a time  the  specters  that  stood  at  bay, 

And  waited  to  clutch  him  as  demons  wait, 

Shut  out  from  the  sinner  by  Faith’s  bright  gate. 
But  the  fire  burnt  low,  and  the  slayer  slept, 

And  the  key  of  his  sleep  was  always  kept 
By  the  leaden  hand  of  him  he  had  slain, 

That  oped  the  door  but  to  drench  the  brain 
With  agony  cruel.  The  night  wind  crept 
Like  a snake  on  the  shuddering  form  that  slept 
And  dreamt,  and  woke  and  shrieked;  for  there, 
With  its  gray-blue  lines  and  its  ghastly  stare, 
Cutting  into  the  vitals  of  Aaron  Mace, 

In  the  flickering  light  was  the  sawyer’s  face  ! 
Evermore  ’twas  with  him,  that  dismal  sight, — 
The  white  face  set  in  the  frame  of  night. 

He  wandered  away  from  the  spot,  but  found 
No  inch  of  the  West  Australian  ground 
Where  he  could  hide  from  the  bleeding  breast, 

Or  sink  his  head  in  a dreamless  rest. 

And  always  with  him  he  bore  the  prize 
In  a pouch  of  leather : the  staring  eyes 
Might  burn  his  soul,  but  the  diamond’s  gleam 
Was  solace  and  joy  for  the  haunted  dream. 

So  the  years  rolled  on,  while  the  murderer’s  mind 
Was  bent  on  a futile  quest, — to  find 
A way  of  escape  from  the  blood-stained  soil 
And  the  terrible  wear  of  the  penal  toil. 

But  this  was  a part  of  the  diamond’s  curse, — 

The  toil  that  was  heavy  before  grew  worse, 

Till  the  panting  wretch  in  his  fierce  unrest 
W ould  clutch  the  pouch  as  it  lay  on  his  breast, 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


657 


And  waking  cower,  with  sob  and  moan, 

Or  shriek  wild  curses  against  the  stone 
That  was  only  a stone  ; for  he  could  not  sell, 

And  he  dare  not  break,  and  he  feared  to  tell 

Of  his  wealth : so  he  bore  it  through  hopes  and  fears — 

His  God  and  his  devil — for  years  and  years. 

And  thus  did  he  draw  near  the  end  of  his  race, 

With  a form  bent  double  and  horror-lined  face, 

And  a piteous  look,  as  if  asking  for  grace 

Or  for  kindness  from  some  one ; but  no  kind  word 

Was  flung  to  his  misery  : shunned,  abhorred, 

E’en  by  wretches  themselves,  till  his  life  was  a curse, 

And  he  thought  that  e’  en  death  could  bring  nothing  worse 
Than  the  phantoms  that  stirred  at  the  diamond’s  weight, — 
His  own  life’s  ghost  and  the  ghost  of  his  mate. 

So  he  turned  one  day  from  the  haunts  of  men, 

And  their  friendless  faces  : an  old  man  then, 

In  a convict’s  garb,  with  white  flowing  hair, 

And  a brow  deep  seared  with  the  word,  “ Despair.” 

He  gazed  not  back  as  his  way  he  took 
To  the  untrod  forest ; and  oh  ! the  look, 

The  piteous  look  in  his  sunken  eyes, 

Told  that  life  was  the  bitterest  sacrifice. 

But  little  was  heard  of  his  later  days  : 

’ Twas  deemed  in  the  W est  that  in  change  of  ways 
He  tried  with  his  tears  to  wash  out  the  sin. 

’Twas  told  by  some  natives  who  once  came  in 
From  the  Kojunup  Hills,  that  lonely  there 
They  had  seen  a figure  with  long  white  hair  ; 

They  encamped  close  by  where  his  hut  was  made, 

And  were  scared  at  night  when  they  saw  he  prayed 
To  the  white  man’s  God  ; and  on  one  wild  night 
They  had  heard  his  voice  till  the  morning  light. 

Years  passed,  and  a sandal  wood-cutter  stood 
At  a ruined  hut  in  a Kojunup  wood  : 


658 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


The  rank  weeds  covered  the  desolate  floor, 

And  an  ant-hill  stood  on  the  fallen  door  ; 

The  cupboard  within  to  the  snakes  was  loot, 

And  the  hearth  was  the  home  of  the  bandicoot. 

But  neither  at  hut  nor  snake  nor  rat 
W as  the  woodcutter  staring  intent,  but  at 
A human  skeleton  clad  in  gray, 

The  hands  clasped  over  the  breast,  as  they 
Had  fallen  in  peace  when  he  ceased  to  pray. 

As  the  bushman  looked  on  the  form,  he  saw 
In  the  breast  a paper  : he  stooped  to  draw 
What  might  tell  him  the  story,  but  at  his  touch 
From  under  the  hands  rolled  a leathern  pouch, 

And  he  raised  it  too, — on  the  paper’s  face 
He  read  u Ticket-of-Leave  of  Aaron  Mace.” 

Then  he  opened  the  pouch,  and  in  dazed  surprise 
At  its  contents  strange  he  unblessed  his  eyes  : 

’ Twas  a lump  of  quartz, — a pound  weight  in  full, — 
And  it  fell  from  his  hand  on  the  skeleton’s  skull ! 


THE  DOG  GUARD:  AN  AUSTRALIAN  STORY. 


THERE  are  lonesome  places  upon  the  earth 
That  have  never  re-echoed  a sound  of  mirth, 
Where  the  spirits  abide  that  feast  and  quaff 
On  the  shuddering  soul  of  a murdered  laugh, 
And  take  grim  delight  in  the  fearful  start, 

As  their  unseen  Angers  clutch  the  heart, 

And  the  blood  flies  out  from  the  griping  pain, 

To  carry  the  chill  through  every  vein; 

And  the  staring  eyes  and  the  whitened  faces 
Are  a joy  to  these  ghosts  of  the  lonesome  places. 

But  of  all  the  spots  on  this  earthly  sphere 
Where  these  dismal  spirits  are  strong  and  near, 


659 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 

There  is  one  more  dreary  than  all  the  rest, — 

’Tis  the  barren  island  of  Rottenest. 

On  Australia’s  western  coast,  you  may — 

On  a seaman’s  chart  of  Fremantle  Bay — 

Find  a tiny  speck,  some  ten  miles  from  shore : 

If  the  chart  be  good,  there  is  something  more, — 

For  a shoal  runs  in  on  the  landward  side, 

With  five  fathoms  marked  for  the  highest  tide. 

You  have  nought  but  my  word  for  all  the  rest, 

But  that  speck  is  the  island  of  Rottenest. 

’Tis  a white  sand -heap,  about  two  miles  long, 

And  say  half  as  wide ; but  the  deeds  of  wrong 
Between  man  and  his  brother  that  there  took  place 
Are  sufficient  to  sully  a continent’s  face. 

Ah,  cruel  tales ! were  they  told  as  a whole, 

They  would  scare  your  polished  humanity’s  soul; 
They  would  blanch  the  cheeks  in  your  carpeted  room, 
With  a terrible  thought  of  the  merited  doom 
For  the  crimes  committed,  still  unredrest, 

On  that  white  sand-heap  called  Rottenest. 

Of  late  years  the  island  is  not  so  bare 
As  it  was  when  I saw  it  first  ; for  there 
On  the  outer  headland  some  buildings  stand, 

And  a flag,  red-crossed,  says  the  patch  of  sand 

Is  a recognized  part  of  the  wide  domain 

That  is  blessed  with  the  peace  of  Victoria’s  reign. 

But  behind  the  lighthouse  the  land’s  the  same, 

And  it  bears  grim  proof  of  the  white  man’s  shame; 
For  the  miniature  vales  that  the  island  owns 
Have  a horrible  harvest  of  human  bones ! 

And  how  did  they  come  there  ? that’s  the  word ; 

And  I’ll  answer  it  now  with  a tale  I heard 
From  the  lips  of  a man  who  was  there,  and  saw 
The  bad  end  of  man’s  greed  and  of  colony  law. 


660 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’kEILLY. 


Many  years  ago,  when  the  white  man  first 

Set  his  foot  on  the  coast,  and  was  hated  and  cursed 

By  the  native,  who  had  not  yet  learned  to  fear 

The  dark  wrath  of  the  stranger,  but  drove  his  spear 

With  a freeman’s  force  and  a bushman’s  yell 

At  the  white  invader,  it  then  befell 

That  so  many  were  killed  and  cooked  and  eaten, 

There  was  risk  of  the  whites  in  the  end  being  beaten ; 
So  a plan  was  proposed, — ’twas  deemed  safest  and  best 
To  imprison  the  natives  in  Rottenest. 

And  so  every  time  there  was  white  blood  spilled, 

There  were  black  men  captured  ; and  those  not  killed 
In  the  rage  of  vengeance  were  sent  away 
To  this  bleak  sand  isle  in  Fremantle  Bay ; 

And  it  soon  came  round  that  a thousand  men 
Were  together  there,  like  wild  beasts  in  a pen. 

There  was  not  a shrub  or  grass-blade  in  the  sand, 

Nor  a piece  of  timber  as  large  as  your  hand; 

But  a government  boat  went  out  each  day 
To  fling  meat  ashore — and  then  sailed  away. 

For  a year  or  so  was  this  course  pursued, 

Till  ’ twas  noticed  that  fewer  came  down  for  food 
When  the  boat  appeared ; then  a guard  lay  round 
The  island  one  night,  and  the  white  men  found 
That  the  savages  swam  at  the  lowest  tide 
To  the  shoal  that  lay  on  the  landward  side, — 

’Twas  a mile  from  the  beach, — and  then  waded  ashore ; 
So  the  settlers  met  in  grave  council  once  more. 

That  a guard  was  needed  was  plain  to  all ; 

But  nobody  answered  the  Governor’s  call 
For  a volunteer  watch.  They  were  only  a few, 

And  their  wild  young  farms  gave  plenty  to  do ; 

And  the  council  of  settlers  was  breaking  up, 

With  a dread  of  the  sorrow  they’d  have  to  sup 
When  the  savage,  unawed,  and  for  vengeance  wild 
Lay  await  in  the  wood  for  the  mother  and  child. 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


661 


And  with  doleful  countenance  each  to  his  neighbor 
Told  a dreary  tale  of  the  world  of  labor 
He  had,  and  said,  “Let  him  watch  who  can, 

I can’t when  there  stepped  to  the  front  a man 
With  a hard  brown  face  and  a burglar’s  brow, 

Who  had  learned  the  secret  he  uttered  now 

When  he  served  in  the  chain-gang  in  New  South  Wales. 

And  he  said  to  them  : ‘ 4 Friends,  as  all  else  fails, 

These  ’ere  natives  are  safe  as  if  locked  and  barred, 

If  you’ll  line  that  shoal  with  a mastiff  guard  ! ” 

And  the  settlers  looked  at  each  other  awhile, 

Till  the  wonder  toned  to  a well-pleased  smile 
When  the  brown  ex-burglar  said  he  knew, 

And  would  show  the  whole  of  ’em  what  to  do. 

Some  three  weeks  after,  the  guard  was  set ; 

And  a native  who  swam  to  the  shoal  was  met 
By  two  half -starved  dogs,  when  a mile  from  shore,— 
And,  somehow,  that  native  was  never  seen  more. 

All  the  settlers  were  pleased  with  the  capital  plan, 

And  they  voted  their  thanks  to  the  hard-faced  man. 

For  a year,  each  day  did  the  government  boat 
Take  the  meat  to  the  isle  and  its  guard  afloat. 

In  a line,  on  the  face  of  the  shoal,  the  dogs 
Had  a dry  house  each,  on  some  anchored  logs  ; 

And  the  neck-chain  from  each  stretched  just  half  way 
To  the  next  dog’s  house  ; right  across  the  Bay 
Ban  a line  that  was  hideous  with  horrid  sounds 
From  the  hungry  throats  of  two  hundred  hounds. 

So  one  more  year  passed,  and  the  brutes  on  the  logs 
Had  grown  more  like  devils  than  common  dogs. 

There  was  such  a hell-chorus  by  day  and  night 
That  the  settlers  ashore  were  chilled  with  fright 
When  they  thought — if  that  legion  should  break  away, 
And  come  in  with  the  tide  some  fatal  day  ! 


662 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


But  they  ’scaped  that  chance ; for  a man  came  in 
From  the  Bush,  one  day,  with  a ’possum’s  skin 
To  the  throat  filled  up  with  large  pearls  he’d  found 
To  the  north,  on  the  shore  of  the  Shark’s  Bay  Sound. 
And  the  settlement  blazed  with  a wild  commotion 
At  sight  of  the  gems  from  the  wealthy  ocean. 

Then  the  settlers  all  began  to  pack 

Their  tools  and  tents,  and  to  ask  the  track 

That  the  bushman  followed  to  strike  the  spot, — 

While  the  dogs  and  natives  were  all  forgot. 

In  two  days,  from  that  camp  on  the  Biver  Swan, 

To  the  Shark’s  Bay  Sound  had  the  settlers  gone 

And  no  merciful  feeling  did  one  retard 

For  the  helpless  men  and  their  terrible  guard. 

It  were  vain  to  try,  in  my  quiet  room, 

To  write  down  the  truth  of  the  awful  doom 
That  befell  those  savages  prisoned  there, 

When  the  pangs  of  hunger  and  wild  despair 
Had  nigh  made  them  mad  as  the  fiends  outside  : 

’Tis  enough  that  one  night,  through  the  low  ebb  tide, 
Swam  nine  hundred  savages,  armed  with  stones 
And  with  weapons  made  from  their  dead  friends’  bones. 
Without  ripple  or  sound,  when  the  moon  was  gone, 
Through  the  inky  water  they  glided  on  ; 

Swimming  deep,  and  scarce  daring  to  draw  a breath, 
While  the  guards,  if  they  saw,  were  as  dumb  as  death. 
’Twas  a terrible  picture  ! O God  ! that  the  night 
Were  so  black  as  to  cover  the  horrid  sight 
From  the  eyes  of  the  Angel  that  notes  man’s  ways 
In  the  book  that  will  ope  on  the  Day  of  Days ! 

There  were  screams  when  they  met, — shrill  screams  of 
pain ! 

For  each  animal  swam  at  the  length  of  his  chain, 

And  with  parching  throat  and  in  furious  mood 
Lay  awaiting,  not  men,  but  his  coming  food. 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


603 


There  were  short,  sharp  cries,  and  a line  of  fleck 
As  the  long  fangs  sank  in  the  swimmer’s  neck ; 

There  were  gurgling  growls  mixed  with  human  groans, 
For  the  savages  drave  the  sharpened  bones 
Through  their  enemies’  ribs,  and  the  bodies  sank, 

Each  dog  holding  fast  with  a bone  through  his  flank. 

Then  those  of  the  natives  who  ’scaped  swam  back ; 

But  too  late ! for  scores  of  the  savage  pack, 

Driven  mad  by  the  yells  and  the  sounds  of  fight, 

Had  broke  loose  and  followed.  On  that  dread  night 
Let  the  curtain  fall : when  the  red  sun  rose 
From  the  placid  ocean,  the  joys  and  woes 
Of  a thousand  men  he  had  last  eve  seen 
Were  as  things  or  thoughts  that  had  never  been. 

When  the  settlers  returned, — in  a month  or  two, — 
They  bethought  of  the  dogs  and  the  prisoned  crew. 
And  a boat  went  out  on  a tardy  quest 
Of  whatever  was  living  on  Bottenest. 

They  searched  all  the  isle,  and  sailed  back  again 
With  some  specimen  bones  of  the  dogs  and  men. 


Though  it  lash  the  shallows  that  line  the  beach , 
Afar  from  the  great  sea  deeps , 

There  is  never  a storm  whose  might  can  reach 
Where  the  vast  leviathan  sleeps. 

Like  a mighty  thought  in  a quiet  mind , 

In  the  clear , cold  depths  he  swims  ; 

Whilst  above  him  the  pettiest  form  of  his  land 
With  a dash  o'er  the  surface  shims. 

There  is  peace  in  power : the  men  ivho  speak 
With  the  loudest  tongues  do  least ; 

And  the  surest  sign  of  a mind  that  is  weak 
Is  its  want  of  the  power  to  rest. 

It  is  only  the  lighter  water  that  flies 
From  the  sea  on  a windy  day  ; 

And  the  deep  blue  ocean  never  replies 
To  the  sibilant  voice  of  the  spray. 


THE  AMBER  WHALE:  A HARPOONEER’S  STORY. 


Whalemen  have  a strange  belief  as  to  the  formation  of  amber.  They 
say  that  it  is  a petrifaction  of  some  internal  part  of  a whale ; and  they 
tell  weird  stories  of  enormous  whales  seen  in  the  warm  latitudes,  that 
were  almost  entirely  transformed  into  the  precious  substance. 


TTTE  were  down  in  the  Indian  Ocean,  after  sperm,  and 
VV  three  years  out ; 

The  last  six  months  in  the  tropics,  and  looking  in  vain  for 
a spout, — 

Five  men  up  on  the  royal  yards,  weary  of  straining  their 
sight ; 

And  every  day  like  its  brother, — just  morning  and  noon 
and  night — 

Nothing  to  break  the  sameness  : water  and  wind  and  sun 

Motionless,  gentle,  and  blazing, — never  a change  in  one. 

Every  day  like  its  brother : Avhen  the  noonday  eight-bells 
came, 

’Twas  like  yesterday  ; and  we  seemed  to  know  that  to-mor- 
row would  be  the  same. 

The  foremast  hands  had  a lazy  time : there  was  never  a 
thing  to  do  ; 

The  ship  was  painted,  tarred  down,  and  scraped ; and  the 
mates  had  nothing  new. 

We’d  worked  at  sinnet  and  ratline  till  there  wasn’t  a yarn 
to  use, 

And  all  we  could  do  was  watch  and  pray  for  a sperm 
whale’s  spout — or  news. 

It  was  whaler’s  luck  of  the  vilest  sort ; and,  though  many 
a volunteer 

Spent  his  watch  below  on  the  look-out,  never  a whale  came 


near, — 


665 


666  JOHN  BOYLE  o’ REILLY. 

* 

At  least  of  the  kind  we  wanted : there  were  lots  of  whales 
of  a sort, — 

Killers  and  finbacks,  and  such  like,  as  if  they  enjoyed  the 
sport 

Of  seeing  a whale-ship  idle  ; but  we  never  lowered  a boat 

For  less  than  a blackfish, — there’s  no  oil  in  a killer’s  or 
finback’s  coat. 

There  was  rich  reward  for  the  look-out  men, — tobacco  for 
even  a sail, 

And  a barrel  of  oil  for  the  lucky  dog  who’ d be  first  to 
“raise  ” a whale. 

The  crew  was  a mixture  from  every  land,  and  many  a 
tongue  they  spoke ; 

And  when  they  sat  in  the  f o’ castle,  enjoying  an  evening 
smoke, 

There  were  tales  told,  youngster,  would  make  you  stare, — 
stories  of  countless  shoals 

Of  devil-fish  in  the  Pacific  and  right-whales  away  at  the 
Poles. 

There  was  one  of  these  f o’  castle  yarns  that  we  always  loved 
to  hear, — 

Kanaka  and  Maori  and  Yankee  ; all  lent  an  eager  ear 

To  that  strange  old  tale  that  was  always  new, — the  wonder- 
ful treasure-tale 

Of  an  old  Down-Eastern  harpooneer  who  had  struck  an 
Amber  Whale ! 

Ay,  that  was  a tale  worth  hearing,  lad : if  ’ twas  true  we 
couldn’t  say, 

Or  if  ’.twas  a yarn  old  Mat  had  spun  to  while  the  time  away. 

“It’s  just  fifteen  years  ago,”  said  Mat,  “since  I shipped 
as  harpooneer 

On  board  a bark  in  New  Bedford,  and  came  cruising  some- 
where near 

To  this  whaling-ground  we’re  cruising  now;  but  whales 
were  plenty  then, 

And  not  like  now,  when  we  scarce  get  oil  to  pay  for  the 
ship  and  men. 


667 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 

There  were  none  of  these  oil  wells  running  then, — at  least, 
what  shore  folk  term 

An  oil  well  in  Pennsylvania, — but  sulphur-bottom  and 
sperm 

Were  plenty  as  frogs  in  a mud-hole,  and  all  of  ’em  big 
whales,  too ; 

One  hundred  barrels  for  sperm-whales ; and  for  sulphur- 
bottom,  two. 

You  couldn’t  pick  out  a small  one:  the  littlest  calf  or 
cow 

Had  a sight  more  oil  than  the  big  bull  whales  we  think  so 
much  of  now. 

We  were  more  to  the  east,  off  Java  Straits,  a little  below 
the  mouth, — 

A hundred  and  five  to  the  east’ard  and  nine  degrees  to  the 
south ; 

And  that  was  as  good  a whaling-ground  for  middling-sized, 
handy  whales 

As  any  in  all  the  ocean  ; and  ’twas  always  white  with  sails 

From  Scotland  and  Hull  and  New  England, — for  the  whales 
were  thick  as  frogs, 

And  ’twas  little  trouble  to  kill  ’em  then,  for' they  lay  as 
quiet  as  logs. 

And  every  night  we’d  go  visiting  the  other  whale-ships 
’round, 

Or  p’r’aps  we’d  strike  on  a Dutchman,  calmed  off  the 
Straits,  and  bound 

To  Singapore  or  Batavia,  with  plenty  of  schnapps  to  sell 

For  a few  whale’s  teeth  or  a gallon  of  oil,  and  the  latest 
news  to  tell. 

And  in  every  ship  of  that  whaling  fleet  was  one  wonderful 
story  told, — 

How  an  Amber  Whale  had  been  seen  that  year  that  was 
worth  a mint  of  gold. 

And  one  man — mate  of  a Scotchman — said  he’d  seen, 
away  to  the  west, 

A big  school  of  sperm,  and  one  whale’s  spout  was  twice  as 
high  as  the  rest ; 


668 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


And  we  knew  that  that  was  the  Amber  Whale,  for  we’d 
often  heard  before 

That  his  spout  was  twice  as  thick  as  the  rest,  and  a hundred 
feet  high  or  more. 

And  often,  when  the  look-out  cried,  ‘ He  blows ! ’ the  very 
hail 

Thrilled  every  heart  with  the  greed  of  gold, — for  we  thought 
of  the  Amber  Whale. 

“ But  never  a sight  of  his  spout  we  saw  till  the  season  there 
went  round, 

And  the  ships  ran  down  to  the  south’ ard  to  another  whal- 
ing-ground. 

We  stayed  to  the  last  off  Java,  and  then  we  ran  to  the  west, 

To  get  our  recruits  at  Mauritius,  and  give  the  crew  a rest. 

Five  days  we  ran  in  the  trade  winds,  and  the  boys  were 
beginning  to  talk 

Of  their  time  ashore,  and  whether  they’d  have  a donkey- 
ride  or  a walk, 

And  whether  they’d  spend  their  money  in  wine,  bananas, 
or  pearls, 

Or  drive  to  the  sugar  plantations  to  dance  with  the  Creole 
girls. 

But  they  soon  got  something  to  talk  about.  Five  days  we 
ran  west-sou’ -west, 

But  the  sixth  day’s  log-book  entry  was  a change  from  all 
the  rest ; 

For  that  was  the  day  the  mast-head  men  made  every  face 
turn  pale, 

With  the  cry  that  we  all  had  dreamt  about, — ‘ He  Blows  ! 
the  Amber  Whale  ! ’ 

“And  every  man  was  motionless,  and  every  speaker’s  lip 

Just  stopped  as  it  was,  with  the  word  half-said:  there 
wasn’t  a sound  in  the  ship 

Till  the  Captain  hailed  the  masthead,  ‘ Whereaway  is  the 
whale  you  see  ? ’ 

And  the  cry  came  down  again,  4 He  blows ! about  four 
points  on  our  lee, 


669 


HIS  LIFE,*  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 

And  three  miles  off,  sir,— there  he  blows!  he’s  going  to 
leeward  fast ! ’ 

And  then  we  sprang  to  the  rigging,  and  saw  the  great  whale 
at  last  ! 

“Ah!  shipmates,  that  was  a sight  to  see:  the  water  was 
smooth  as  a lake, 

And  there  was  the  monster  rolling,  with  a school  of  whales 
in  his  wake. 

They  looked  like  pilot-fish  round  a shark,  as  if  they  were 
keeping  guard  ; 

And,  shipmates,  the  spout  of  that  Amber  Whale  was  high 
as  a sky- sail  yard. 

There  was  never  a ship’s  crew  worked  so  quick  as  our 
whalemen  worked  that  day, — 

When  the  captain  shouted,  ‘ Swing  the  boats,  and  be  ready 
to  lower  away ! ’ 

Then,  4 A pull  on  the  weather-braces,  men ! let  her  head 
fall  off  three  points  ! ’ 

And  off  she  swung,  with  a quarter-breeze  straining  the  old 
ship’s  joints. 

The  men  came  down  from  the  mastheads ; and  the  boat’s 
crews  stood  on  the  rail, 

Stowing  the  lines  and  irons,  and  fixing  paddles  and  sail. 

And  when  all  was  ready  we  leant  on  the  boats  and  looked 
at  the  Amber’s  spout, 

That  went  up  like  a monster  fountain,  with  a sort  of  a rum- 
bling shout, 

Like  a thousand  railroad  engines  puffing  away  their  smoke. 

He  was  just  like  a frigate’s  hull  capsized,  and  the  swaying 
water  broke 

Against  the  sides  of  the  great  stiff  whale : he  was  steering 
sou  th-by- west, — 

For  the  Cape,  no  doubt,  for  a whale  can  shape  a course  as 
well  as  the  best. 

We  soon  got  close  as  was  right  to  go  ; for  the  school  might 
hear  a hail, 

Or  see  the  bark,  and  that  was  the  last  of  our  Bank-of-Eng- 
land  Whale. 


670 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


‘ Let  her  luff,’  said  the  Old  Man,  gently.  ‘Now,  lower 
away,  my  boys, 

And  pull  for  a mile,  then  paddle, — and  mind  that  you 
make  no  noise.’ 

“ A minute  more,  and  the  boats  were  down  ; and  out  from 
the  hull  of  the  bark 

They  shot  with  a nervous  sweep  of  the  oars,  like  dolphins 
away  from  a shark. 

Each  officer  stood  in  the  stern,  and  watched,  as  he  held  the 
steering  oar, 

And  the  crews  bent  down  to  their  pulling  as  they  never 
pulled  before. 

“Our  Mate  was  as  thorough  a whaleman  as  I ever  met 
afloat ; 

And  I was  his  harpooneer  that  day,  and  sat  in  the  bow  of 
the  boat. 

His  eyes  were  set  on  the  whales  ahead,  and  he  spoke  in  a 
low,  deep  tone, 

And  told  the  men  to  be  steady  and  cool,  and  the  whale  was 
all  our  own. 

And  steady  and  cool  they  proved  to  be  : you  could  read  it 
in  every  face, 

And  in  every  straining  muscle,  that  they  meant  to  win  that 
race. 

‘ Bend  to  it,  boys,  for  a few  strokes  more, — bend  to  it 
steady  and  long ! 

Now,  in  with  your  oars,  and  paddles  out, — all  together,  and 
strong ! ’ 

Then  we  turned  and  sat  on  the  gunwale,  with  our  faces  to 
the  bow ; 

And  the  whales  were  right  ahead, — no  more  than  four  ships’ 
lengths  off  now. 

There  were  five  of  ’em,  hundred-barrelers,  like  guards 
round  the  Amber  Whale. 

And  to  strike  him  we’d  have  to  risk  being  stove  by  crossing 
a sweeping  tail ; 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES.  671 

But  the  prize  and  the  risk  were  equal.  ‘ Mat,’  now  whispers 
the  Mate, 

‘ Are  your  irons  ready  ? ’ ‘ Ay,  ay,  sir.’  ‘ Stand  up,  then, 

steady,  and  wait 

Till  I give  the  word,  then  let  ’em  fly,  and  hit  him  below 
the  fin 

As  he  rolls  to  wind’ard.  Start  her,  boys  ! now’s  the  time 
to  slide  her  in  ! 

Hurrah  ! that  fluke  just  missed  us.  Mind,  as  soon  as  the 
iron’s  fast, 

Be  ready  to  back  your  paddles, — now  in  for  it,  boys, 
at  last. 

Heave  ! Again  ! ’ 


“ And  two  irons  flew : the  first  one  sank  in  the  joint, 

’Tween  the  head  and  hump, — in  the  muscle  ; but  the  second 
had  its  point 

Turned  off  by  striking  the  amber  case,  coming  out  again 
like  a bow, 

And  the  monster  carcass  quivered,  and  rolled  with  pain 
from  the  first  deep  blow. 

Then  he  lashed  the  sea  with  his  terrible  flukes,  and  showed 
us  many  a sign 

That  his  rage  was  roused.  ‘Lay  off,’  roared  the  Mate, 
4 and  all  keep  clear  of  the  line  ! ’ 

And  that  was  a timely  warning,  for  the  whale  made  an 
awful  breach 

Right  out  of  the  sea  ; and  ’twas  well  for  us  that  the  boat 
was  beyond  the  reach 

Of  his  sweeping  flukes,  as  he  milled  around,  and  made  for 
the  Captain’s  boat, 

That  was  right  astern.  And,  shipmates,  then  my  heart 
swelled  up  in  my  throat 

At  the  sight  I saw : the  Amber  Whale  was  lashing  the  sea 
with  rage, 

And  two  of  his  hundred-barrel  guards  were  ready  now  to 
engage 


672 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


In  a bloody  fight,  and  with  open  jaws  they  came  to  their 
master’s  aid. 

Then  we  knew  the  Captain’ s boat  was  doomed ; but  the 
crew  were  no  whit  afraid, — 

They  were  brave  New  England  whalemen, — and  we  saw 
the  harpooneer 

Stand  up  to  send  in  his  irons,  as  soon  as  the  whales  came 
near. 

Then  we  heard  the  Captain’ s order,  4 Heave  ! ’ and  saw  the 
harpoon  fly, 

As  the  whales  closed  in  with  their  open  jaws : a shock,  and 
a stifled  cry 

Was  all  that  we  heard  ; then  we  looked  to  see  if  the  crew 
were  still  afloat, — 

But  nothing  was  there  save  a dull  red  patch,  and  the 
boards  of  the  shattered  boat ! 


“ But  that  was  no  time  for  mourning  words : the  other  two 
boats  came  in, 

And  one  got  fast  on  the  quarter,  and  one  aft  the  starboard 
fin 

Of  the  Amber  Whale.  For  a minute  he  paused,  as  if  he 
were  in  doubt 

As  to  whether  ’twas  best  to  run  or  fight.  ‘ Lay  on  ! ’ the 
Mate  roared  out, 

‘ And  I’ll  give  him  a lance  F The  boat  shot  in  ; and  the 
Mate,  when  he  saw  his  chance 

Of  sending  it  home  to  the  vitals,  four  times  he  buried  his 
lance. 

A minute  more,  and  a cheer  went  up,  when  we  saw  that  his 
aim  was  good  ; 

For  the  lance  had  struck  in  a life-spot,  and  the  whale  was 
spouting  blood ! 

But  now  came  the  time  of  danger,  for  the  school  of  whales 
around 

Had  aired  their  flukes,  and  the  cry  was  raised,  4 Look  out ! 
they’re  going  to  sound  ! ’ 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES.  673 

And  down  they  went  with  a sudden  plunge,  the  Amber 
Whale  the  last, 

While  the  lines  ran  smoking  out  of  the  tubs,  he  went  to  the 
deep  so  fast. 

Before  you  could  count  your  fingers,  a hundred  fathoms 
were  out ; 

And  then  he  stopped,  for  a wounded  whale  must  come  to 
the  top  and  spout. 

We  hauled  slack  line  as  we  felt  him  rise ; and  when  he 
came  up  alone, 

And  spouted  thick  blood,  we  cheered  again,  for  we  knew 
he  was  all  our  own. 

He  was  frightened  now,  and  his  fight  was  gone, — right 
round  and  round  he  spun, 

As  if  he  was  trying  to  sight  the  boats,  or  find  the  best  side 
to  run. 

But  that  was  the  minute  for  us  to  work : the  boats  hauled 
in  their  slack, 

And  bent  on  the  drag-tubs  over  the  stern  to  tire  and  hold 
him  back. 

The  bark  was  five  miles  to  wind’ard,  and  the  mate  gave  a 
troubled  glance 

At  the  sinking  sun,  and  muttered,  4 Boys,  we  must  give  him 
another  lance, 

Or  he’ll  run  till  night;  and,  if  he  should  head  to  wind’ard 
in  the  dark, 

We’ll  be  forced  to  cut  loose  and  leave  him,  or  else  lose  run 
of  the  bark.’ 

So  we  hauled  in  close,  two  boats  at  once,  but  only  frightened 
the  whale ; 

And,  like  a hound  that  was  badly  whipped,  he  turned  and 
showed  his  tail, 

With  his  head  right  dead  to  wind’ard ; then  as  straight 
and  as  swift  he  sped 

As  a hungry  shark  for  a swimming  prey ; and,  bending 
over  his  head, 

Like  a mighty  plume,  went  his  bloody  spout.  Ah,  ship- 
mates, that  was  a sight 


674  JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 

Worth  a life  at  sea  to  witness  ! In  his  wake  the  sea  was 
white 

As  you’ve  seen  it  after  a steamer’s  screw,  churning  up  like 
foaming  yeast ; 

And  the  boats  went  hissing  along  at  the  rate  of  twenty 
knots  at  least. 

With  the  water  flush  with  the  gun  whale,  and  the  oars  were 
all  apeak, 

While  the  crews  sat  silent  and  quiet,  watching  the  long, 
white  streak 

That  was  traced  by  the  line  of  our  passage.  We  hailed 
the  bark  as  we  passed, 

And  told  them  to  keep  a sharp  look-out  from  the  head  of 
every  mast ; 

‘And  if  we’re  not  back  by  sundown,’  cried  the  Mate,  4 you 
keep  a light 

At  the  royal  cross-trees.  If  he  dies,  we  may  stick  to  the 
whale  all  night.’ 

“And  past  we  swept  with  our  oars  apeak,  and  waved  our 
hands  to  the  hail 

Of  the  wondering  men  on  the  taffrail,  who  were  watching 
our  Amber  Whale 

As  he  surged  ahead,  just  as  if  he  thought  he  could  tire  his 
enemies  out ; 

I was  almost  sorrowful,  shipmates,  to  see  after  each  red  spout 

That  the  great  whale’s  strength  was  failing:  the  sweep  of 
his  flukes  grew  slow, 

Till  at  sundown  he  made  about  four  knots,  and  his  spout 
was  weak  and  low. 

Then  said  the  Mate  to  his  boat’s  crew : 4 Boys,  the  vessel  is 
out  of  sight 

To  the  leeward  : now,  shall  we  cut  the  line,  or  stick  to  the 
whale  all  night  ? ’ 

4 We’ll  stick  to  the  whale!’  cried  every  man.  ‘Let  the 
other  boats  go  back 

To  the  vessel  and  beat  to  wind’ard,  as  well  as  they  can,  in 
our  track.’ 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES.  675 

It  was  done  as  they  said : the  lines  were  cut,  and  the  crews 
cried  out,  4 Good  speed  ! ’ 

As  we  swept  along  in  the  darkness,  in  the  wake  of  our 
monster  steed, 

That  went  plunging  on,  with  the  dogged  hope  that  he’d 
tire  his  enemies  still, — 

But  even  the  strength  of  an  Amber  Whale  must  break 
before  human  will. 

By  little  and  little  his  power  had  failed  as  he  spouted  his 
blood  away, 

Till  at  midnight  the  rising  moon  shone  down  on  the  great 
fish  as  he  lay 

Just  moving  his  flukes ; but  at  length  he  stopped,  and 
raising  his  square,  black  head 

As  high  as  the  topmast  cross-trees,  swung  round  and  fell 
over— dead ! 


“ And  then  rose  a shout  of  triumph, — a shout  that  was 
more  like  a curse 

Than  an  honest  cheer  ; but,  shipmates,  the  thought  in  our 
hearts  was  worse, 

And  ’twas  punished  with  bitter  suffering.  We  claimed  the 
whale  as  our  own, 

And  said  that  the  crew  should  have  no  share  of  the  wealth 
that  was  ours  alone. 

We  said  to  each  other  : We  want  their  help  till  we  get  the 
whale  aboard, 

So  we’ll  let  ’em  think  that  they’ll  have  a share  till  we  get 
the  Amber  stored, 

And  then  we’ll  pay  them  their  wages,  and  send  them 
ashore — or  afloat , 

If  they  show  their  temper.  Ah ! shipmates,  no  wonder 
’twas  that  boat 

And  its  selfish  crew  were  cursed  that  night.  Next  day  we 
saw  no  sail, 

But  the  wind  and  sea  were  rising.  Still,  we  held  to  the 
drifting  whale, — 


676 


JOHN  BOYLE  O*  REILLY. 


And  a dead  whale  drifts  to  windward, — going  farther  away 
from  the  ship, 

Without  water,  or  bread,  or  courage  to  pray  with  heart  or  lip 

That  had  planned  and  spoken  the  treachery.  The  wind 
blew  into  a gale, 

And  it  screamed  like  mocking  laughter  round  our  boat  and 
the  Amber  Whale. 

“That  night  fell  dark  on  the  starving  crew,  and  a hurri- 
cane blew  next  day ; 

Then  we  cut  the  line,  and  we  cursed  the  prize  as  it  drifted 
fast  away, 

As  if  some  power  under  the  waves  were  towing  it  out  of 
sight ; 

And  there  we  were,  without  help  or  hope,  dreading  the 
coming  night. 

Three  days  that  hurricane  lasted.  When  it  passed,  two 
men  were  dead  ; 

And  the  strongest  one  of  the  living  had  not  strength  to 
raise  his  head, 

When  his  dreaming  swoon  was  broken  by  the  sound  of  a 
cheery  hail, 

And  he  saw  a shadow  fall  on  the  boat, — it  fell  from  the  old 
bark’ s sail ! 

And  when  he  heard  their  kindly  words,  you’d  think  he 
should  have  smiled 

With  joy  at  his  deliverance  ; but  he  cried  like  a little  child, 

And  hid  his  face  in  his  poor  weak  hands, — for  he  thought 
of  the  selfish  plan, — 

And  he  prayed  to  God  to  forgive  them  all.  And,  ship- 
mates, I am  the  man  ! — 

The  only  one  of  the  sinful  crew  that  ever  beheld  his  home  ; 

For  before  the  cruise  was  over,  all  the  rest  were  under  the 
foam. 

It’s  just  fifteen  years  gone,  shipmates,”  said  old  Mat,  end- 
ing his  tale ; 

“ And  I often  pray  that  I’ll  never  see  another  Amber 
Whale.” 


THE  MUTINY  OF  THE  CHAINS. 


PENAL  COLONY  OF  WESTERN  AUSTRALIA,  1857. 


HE  sun  rose  o’er  dark  Fremantle, 


And  the  Sentry  stood  on  the  wall ; 

Above  him,  with  white  lines  swinging, 

The  flag-staff,  bare  and  tall : 

The  flag  at  its  foot — the  Mutiny  Flag— 

Was  always  fast  to  the  line, — 

For  its  sanguine  field  was  a cry  of  fear, 

And  the  Colony  counted  an  hour  a year 
In  the  need  of  the  blood-red  sign. 

The  staff  and  the  line,  with  its  ruddy  flash, 
Like  a threat  or  an  evil-bode, 

Were  a monstrous  whip  with  a crimson  lash, 
Fit  sign  for  the  penal  code. 

The  Sentry  leant  on  his  rifle,  and  stood 
By  the  mast,  with  a deep-drawn  breath  ; 

A stern-browed  man,  but  there  heaved  a sigh 
For  the  sight  that  greeted  his  downward  eye 
In  the  prison-square  beneath. 

In  yellow  garb,  in  soldier  lines, 

One  hundred  men  in  chains  ; 

While  the  watchful  warders,  sword  in  hand, 
With  eyes  suspicious  keenly  scanned 
The  links  of  the  living  lanes. 

There,  wary  eyes  met  stony  eyes, 


678 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


And  stony  face  met  stone. 

There  was  never  a gleam  of  trust  or  truce ; 

In  the  covert  thought  of  an  iron  loose, 

Grim  warder  and  ward  were  one. 

Why  was  it  so,  that  there  they  stood, — 

Stern  driver  and  branded  slave  ? 

Why  rusted  the  gyve  in  the  bondman’s  blood, 

No  hope  for  him  but  the  grave  1 
Out  of  thousands  there  why  was  it  so 
That  one  hundred  hearts  must  feel 
The  bitterest  pang  of  the  penal  woe, 

And  the  grind  of  a nation’s  heel  ? 

Why,  but  for  choice — the  bondman’s  choice  ? 

They  balanced  the  gains  and  pains  ; 

They  took  their  chance  of  the  chains. 

There  spake  in  their  hearts  a hidden  voice 

Of  the  blinding  joy  of  a freeman’s  burst 

Through  the  great  dim  woods.  Then  the  toil  accurst 

The  scorching  days  and  the  nights  in  tears 

The  riveted  rings  for  years  and  years  ; 

They  weighed  them  all — they  looked  before 
At  the  one  and  other,  and  spoke  them  o’er, 

And  they  saw  what  the  heart  of  man  must  see, 

That  the  uttermost  blessing  is  Liberty  ! 

Ah,  pity  them,  God ! they  must  always  choose, 

For  the  life  to  gain  and  the  death  to  lose. 

They  dream  of  the  woods  and  the  mountain  spring, 
And  they  grasp  the  flower,  to  clutch  the  sting. 

Even  so  : they  are  better  than  those  who  bend 
Like  beasts  to  the  lash,  and  go  on  to  the  end 
As  a beast  will  go,  with  to-day  for  a life, 

And  to-morrow  a blank.  Offer  peace  and  strife 
To  a man  enslaved — let  him  vote  for  ease 
And  coward  labor,  and  be  content ; 

Or  let  him  go  out  in  the  front,  as  these, 

With  their  eyes  on  the  doom  and  the  danger,  went. 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


679 


And  take  yonr  choice — the  man  who  remains 
A self-willed  serf,  or  the  one  who  stains 
His  sudden  hand  with  a drive  for  light 
Through  a bristling  rank  and  a gloomy  night. 

This  man  for  me — for  his  heart  he’ll  share 
With  a friend  : with  a foe,  he’ll  fight  him  fair. 

And  such  as  he  are  in  every  rank 
Of  the  column  that  moves  with  a dismal  clank 
And  a dead-march  step  toward  the  rock-bound  place 
Where  the  chain-gangs  toil — o’er  the  beetling  face 
Of  the  cliff  that  roots  in  the  Swan’s  deep  tide  : 

Steep  walls  of  granite  on  either  side, 

At  the  precipice’  foot  the  river  wide  ; 

Behind  them  in  ranks  the  warders  fall ; 

And  above  them,  the  Sentry  paces  the  wall. 

Year  in,  year  out,  has  the  Sentry  stood 
On  the  wall  at  the  foot  of  the*  mast. 

He  has  turned  from  the  toilers  to  watch  the  flood 
Like  his  own  slow  life  go  past. 

He  has  noted  the  Chains  grow  fat  and  lean  ; 

He  has  sighed  for  their  empty  spaces, 

And  thought  of  the  cells  where  their  end  had  been, 
Where  they  lay  with  their  poor  dead  faces, 

With  never  a kiss,  or  prayer,  or  knell— 

They  were'better  at  rest  in  the  river  ; 

He  thinks  of  the  shadow  that  o’er  them  fell 
From  the  mast  with  its  whip-like  quiver ; 

He  has  seen  it  tipped  with  its  crimson  lash 
When  the  mutiny-flood  had  risen 
And  swept  like  a sea  with  an  awful  swash 
Through  the  squares  and  the  vaulted  prison. 

His  thoughts  are  afar  with  the  woeful  day, 

With  the  ranged  dead  men  and  the  dying, 

And  slowly  he  treads  till  they  pass  away — 

Then  a pause,  and  a start,  and  a scuffling  sound, 

And  a glance  beneath,  at  a battle-ground, 

Where  the  lines  are  drawn,  and  the  Chains  are  found 


680 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


Their  armed  guards  defying ! 

A hush  of  death— and  the  Sentry  stands 

By  the  mast,  with  the  halyards  tight  in  his  hands, 

And  the  Mutiny  Flag  is  flying ! 

Woe  to  the  weak,  to  the  mutineers ! 

The  bolt  of  their  death  is  driven  ; 

A mercy  waits  on  all  other  tears, 

But  the  Chains  are  never  forgiven. 

Woe  to  the  rebels  ! — their  hands  are  bare, 

Their  manacled  bodies  helpless  there  ; 

Their  faces  lit  with  a strange  wild  light, 

As  if  they  had  fought  and  had  won  the  fight ! 

No  cry  is  uttered — upraised  no  hand  ; 

All  stilled  to  a muscle’s  quiver  ; 

One  line  on  the  brink  of  the  cliff  they  stand, 

Their  shadows  flung  down  on  the  river. 

The  quarry  wall  is  on  either  side, 

The  blood-red  flag  high  o’er  them  ; 

But  the  lurid  light  in  their  eyes  defied 
The  gathering  guards  before  them. 

No  parley  is  held  when  the  Chains  revolt : 

Grimly  silent  they  stand  secure 
On  the  outward  lip  of  the  embrasure ; 

Waiting  fierce-eyed  for  the  fatal  bolt. 

A voice  from  the  guard,  in  a monotone  ; 

A voice  that  was  cold  and  hard  as  stone  : — 

“ Make  ready  ! Fire  ! ” 

O Christ,  the  cry 

From  the  manacled  men  ! not  fear  to  die, 

Or  whine  for  mercy  ; rebelled  they  stood, 

Well  knowing  the  price  of  revolt  was  blood  ; 

Well  knowing — but  each  one  knew  that  he 
Would  sell  his  blood  for  his  liberty  ! 

Unwarned  by  a word,  uncalled,  unsliriven, 

They  dare  by  a look — and  the  doom  is  given. 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


681 


They  raise  their  brows  in  the  wild  revolt, 

And  God’s  wrath  flames  in  the  fierce  death-bolt ; 
God’s  wrath? — nay,  man’s  ; God  never  smote 
A rebel  dead  whose  swelling  throat 
Was  full  with  protest.  Hear,  then  smite  ; 

God’s  justice  weighs  not  shrieks  the  right. 


4 4 Make  ready ! Fire  ! ’ ’ 

Again  outburst 

The  horror  and  shame  for  the  deed  accurst ! 

O,  cry  of  the  weak,  as  the  hot  blood  calls 
From  the  burning  wound,  and  the  stricken  falls 
With  his  face  in  the  dust ; and  the  strong  one  stands, 
With  scornful  lips  and  ensanguined  hands  ; 

O,  blood  of  the  weak,  unbought,  unpriced, 

Thy*  smoke  is  a piteous  prayer  to  Christ ! 


They  stand  on  the  brink  of  the  cliff — they  bend 
To  the  dead  in  their  chains  ; then  rise,  and  send 
To  the  murdering  muzzles  defiant  eyes. 

44  Make  ready!  Fire!” 

The  smoke-clouds  rise : 

They  are  still  on  the  face  of  the  cliff — they  bend 
Once  more  to  the  dead — they  whisper  a word 
To  the  hearts  in  the  dust — then,  undeterred, 

They  raise  their  faces,  so  grimly  set, 

Till  the  eyes  of  slayer  and  doomed  have  met. 

O merciful  God,  let  thy  pity  rain 
Ere  the  hideous  lightning  leaps  again  ! 

They  have  sinned — they  have  erred — let  the  living  stand— 
They  have  dared  and  rued — let  thy  loving  hand 
Be  laid  on  those  brows  that  bravely  face 
The  death  that  shall  wash  them  of  all  disgrace  ! 

Be  swift  with  pity — O,  late,  too  late  ! 1 
The  tubes  are  leveled— the  marksmen  wait 


682 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


For  the  word  of  doom — the  spring  is  pressed 
By  the  nervous  finger — the  sight  is  straight — 

“Make  ready  ! ” — 

Why  falters  the  dread  command 
Why  stare  as  affrighted  the  armed  band? 

Why  lower  the  rifles  from  shoulder  to  hip, 

Why  dies  the  word  on  the  leader’s  lip, 

While  the  voice  that  was  hard  grows  husky  deep 
And  the  face  is  a-tremble  as  if  to  weep  ? 

The  Chains  on  the  brink  of  the  cliff  are  lined  ; 

The  living  are  bowed  o’er  the  dead — they  rise 
And  they  face  the  rifles  with  burning  eyes  ; 

Then  they  bend  again,  and  with  one  set  mind 
They  raise  the  dead  and  the  wounded  raise 
In  their  loving  arms  with  words  of  praise 
And  tender  grief  for  the  torturing  wounds. 

One  backward  step  with  a burdened  tread — 

They  bear  toward  the- precipice  wounded  and  dead — 
Then  they  turned  on  the  cliff  to  front  the  guard 
With  faces  like  men  that  have  died  in  fight ; 

Their  brows  were  raised  as  if  proud  reward 
Were  theirs,  and  their  eyes  had  a victor’s  light. 

They  spoke  not  a word,  but  stood  sublime 
In  their  somber  strength,  and  the  watchers  saw 
That  they  smiled  as  they  looked,  and  their  words 
heard 

As  they  spoke  to  the  dying  a loving  word. 

They  were  Men  at  last — they  knew  naught  of  crime  ; 
They  were  masters  and  makers  of  life  and  law. 

They  turned  from  the  guard  that  quailed  and  shrank 
From  the  gleaming  eyes  of  the  burdened  rank  ; 

They  turned  on  the  cliff,  and  a sob  was  heard 
As  they  looked  far  down  on  the  darkened  river  ; 
They  raised  their  eyes  to  the  sky — they  grasped 
The  dead  to  their  breasts,  while  the  wounded  clasped 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


683 


The  necks  of  the  brothers  who  bore  their  weight — 
Then  they  sprang  from  the  clitf,  as  a horse  will  spring 
For  his  life  from  a precipice — sprang  to  death 
In  silence  and  sternness — one  deep  breath, 

As  they  plunged,  of  liberty,  thrilled  their  souls, 

And  then — the  Chains  were  at  rest  forever  ! 


From  that  fair  land  and  drear  land  in  the  South, 
Of  which  through  years  I do  not  cease  to  think , 
I brought  a tale,  learned  not  by  word  of  mouth, 
But  formed  by  finding  here  one  golden  link 
And  there  another;  and  with  hands  unskilled 
For  such  fine  work,  but  patient  of  all  pain 
For  love  of  it,  1 sought  therefrom  to  build 

What  might  have  been  at  first  the  goodly  chain . 

It  is  not  golden  now  : my  craft  knows  more 
Of  working  baser  metal  than  of  fine  ; 

But  to  those  fate-wrought  rings  of  precious  ore 
I add  these  rugged  iron  links  of  mine . 


THE  KINGr  OF  THE  VASSE. 


A LEGEND  OF  THE  BUSH. 


MY  tale  which  I have  brought  is  of  a time 

Ere  that  fair  Southern  land  was  stained  with  crimei 
Brought  thitherward  in  reeking  ships  and  cast 
Like  blight  upon  the  coast,  or  like  a blast 
From  angry  levin  on  a fair  young  tree, 

That  stands  thenceforth  a piteous  sight  to  see. 

So  lives  this  land  to-day  beneath  the  sun,— 

A weltering  plague-spot,  where  the  hot  tears  run, 

And  hearts  to  ashes  turn,  and  souls  are  dried 
Like  empty  kilns  where  hopes  have  parched  and  died. 
Woe’s  cloak  is  round  her, — she  the  fairest  shore 
In  all  the  Southern  Ocean  o’er  and  o’er. 

Poor  Cinderella ! she  must  bide  her  woe, 

Because  an  elder  sister  wills  it  so. 

Ah!  could  that  sister  see  the  future  day 

When  her  own  wealth  and  strength  are  shorn  away, 

And  she,  lone  mother  then,  puts  forth  her  hand 
To  rest  on  kindred  blood  in  that  far  land ; 

Could  she  but  see  that  kin  deny  her  claim 
Because  of  nothing  owing  her  but  shame, — 

Then  might  she  learn  ’tis  building  but  to  fall, 

If  carted  rubble  be  the  basement-wall. 

But  this  my  tale,  if  tale  it  be,  begins 
Before  the  young  land  saw  the  old  land’s  sins 
Sail  up  the  orient  ocean,  like  a cloud 
Far-blown,  and  widening  as  it  neared, — a shroud 
Fate-sent  to  wrap  the  bier  of  all  things  pure, 

And  mark  the  leper-land  while  stains  endure. 

685 


686 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


In  the  far  days,  the  few  who  sought  the  West 
Were  men  all  guileless,  in  adventurous  quest 
Of  lands  to  feed  their  flocks  and  raise  their  grain, 
And  help  them  live  their  lives  with  less  of  pain 
Than  crowded  Europe  lets  her  children  know. 

From  their  old  homesteads  did  they  seaward  go, 

As  if  in  Nature’s  order  men  must  flee 
As  flow  the  streams, — from  inlands  to  the  sea. 

In  that  far  time,  from  out  a Northern  land, 

With  home-ties  severed,  went  a numerous  band 
Of  men  and  wives  and  children,  white-haired  folk : 
Whose  humble  hope  of  rest  at  home  had  broke, 

As  year  was  piled  on  year,  and  still  their  toil 
Had  wrung  poor  fee  from  Sweden’s  rugged  soil. 

One  day  there  gathered  from  the  neighboring  steads, 
In  Jacob  Eibsen’ s,  five  strong  household  heads, — 
Five  men  large-limbed  and  sinewed,  Jacob’s  sons, 
Though  he  was  hale,  as  one  whose  current  runs 
In  stony  channels,  that  the  streamlet  rend, 

But  keep  it  clear  and  full  unto  the  end. 

Eight  sons  had  Jacob  Eibsen, — three  still  boys, 

And  these  five  men,  who  owned  of  griefs  and  joys 
The  common  lot ; and  three  tall  girls  beside, 

Of  whom  the  eldest  was  a blushing  bride 
One  year  before.  Old-fashioned  times  and  men, 

And  wives  and  maidens,  were  in  Sweden  then. 

These  five  came  there  for  counsel : they  were  tired 
Of  hoping  on  for  all  the  heart  desired ; 

And  Jacob,  old  but  mighty-thewed  as  youth, 

In  all  their  words  did  sadly  own  the  truth, 

And  said  unto  them,  “ Wealth  cannot  be  found 
In  Sweden  now  by  men  who  till  the  ground. 

I’ve  thought  at  times  of  leaving  this  bare  place, 

And  holding  seaward  with  a seeking  face 

For  those  new  lands  they  speak  of,  where  men  thrive. 

Alone  I’ve  thought  of  this;  but  now  you  five — 

Five  brother  men  of  Eibsen  blood — shall  say 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES.  687 

If  our  old  stock  from  here  must  wend  their  way, 

And  seek  a home  where  anxious  sires  can  give 
To  every  child  enough  whereon  to  live.” 

Then  each  took  thought  in  silence.  Jacob  gazed 
Across  them  at  the  pastures  worn  and  grazed 
By  ill-fed  herds ; his  glance  to  corn-fields  passed, 

Where  stunted  oats,  worse  each  year  than  the  last, 

And  blighted  barley,  grew  amongst  the  stones, 

That  showed  ungainly,  like  earth’s  fleshless  bones. 

He  sighed,  and  turned  away.  4 4 Sons,  let  me  know 
What  think  you  ? ” 

Each  one  answered  firm,  44  We  go.” 
And  then  they  said,  44  We  want  no  northern  wind 
To  chill  us  more,  or  driving  hail  to  blind. 

But  let  us  sail  where  south  winds  fan  the  sea, 

And  happier  we  and  all  our  race  shall  be.” 

And  so  in  time  there  started  for  the  coast, 

With  farm  and  household  gear,  this  Eibsen  host ; 

And  there,  with  others,  to  a good  ship  passed, 

Which  soon  of  Sweden’s  hills  beheld  the  last. 

I know  not  of  their  voyage,  nor  how  they 
Did  wonder-stricken  sit,  as  day  by  day, 

’Neath  tropic  rays,  they  saw  the  smooth  sea  swell 
And  heave  ; while  night  by  night  the  north-star  fell, 

Till  last  they  watched  him  burning  on  the  sea ; 

Nor  how  they  saw,  and  wondered  it  could  be, 

Strange  beacons  rise  before  them  as  they  gazed : 

Nor  how  their  hearts  grew  light  when  southward  blazed 
Five  stars  in  blessed  shape, — the  Cross  ! whose  flame 
Seemed  shining  welcome  as  the  wanderers  came. 

My  story  presses  from  this  star-born  hope 
To  where  on  young  New  Holland’s  western  slope 
These  Northern  farming  folk  found  homes  at  last, 

And  all  their  thankless  toil  seemed  now  long  past. 


688 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’ REILLY. 


Nine  fruitful  years  chased  over,  and  nigh  all 
Of  life  was  sweet.  But  one  dark  drop  of  gall 
Had  come  when  first  they  landed,  like  a sign 
Of  some  black  woe  ; and  deep  in  Eibsen’s  wine 
Of  life  it  hid,  till  in  the  sweetest  cup 
The  old  man  saw  its  shape  come  shuddering  up. 

And  first  it  came  in  this  wise  : when  their  ship 
Had  made  the  promised  land,  and  every  lip 
Was  pouring  praise  for  what  the  eye  did  meet, — 

For  all  the  air  was  yellow  as  with  heat 
Above  the  peaceful  sea  and  dazzling  sand 
That  wooed  each  other  round  the  beauteous  land, 

Where  inward  stretched  the  slumbering  forest’s  green,— 
When  first  these  sights  from  off  the  deck  were  seen, 
There  rose  a wailing  sternwards,  and  the  men 
Who  dreamt  of  heaven  turned  to  earth  agen, 

And  heard  the  direful  cause  with  bated  breath, — 

The  land’s  first  gleam  had  brought  the  blight  of  death  ! 

0 / 

The  wife  of  Eibsen  held  her  six-years’  son, 

Her  youngest,  and  in  secret  best-loved  one, 

Close  to  her  lifeless  : his  had  been  the  cry 
That  first  horizonwards  bent  every  eye  ; 

And  from  that  opening  sight  of  sand  and  tree 
Like  one  deep  spell-bound  did  he  seem  to  be, 

And  moved  by  some  strange  phantasy  ; his  eyes 
Were  wide  distended  as  in  glad  surprise 
At  something  there  lie  saw ; his  arms  reached  o’er 
The  vessel’s  side  as  if  to  greet  the  shore, 

And  sounds  came  from  his  lips  like  sobs  of  joy. 


A brief  time  so  ; and  then  the  blue-eyed  boy 
Sank  down  convulsed,  as  if  to  him  appeared 
Strange  sights  that  they  saw  not ; and  all  afeard 
Grew  the  late  joyous  people  with  vague  dread ; 
And  loud  the  mother  wailed  above  her  dead. 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


The  ship  steered  in  and  found  a bay,  and  then 
The  anchor  plunged  aweary-like : the  men 
Breathed  breaths  of  rest  at  treading  land  agen. 

Upon  the  beach  by  Christian  men  untrod 
The  wanderers  kneeling  offered  up  to  God 
The  land’s  first-fruits  ; and  nigh  the  kneeling  band 
The  burdened  mother  sat  upon  the  sand, 

And  still  she  wailed,  not  praying. 

’Neath  the  wood 

That  lined  the  beach  a crowd  of  watchers  stood  : 

Tall  men  spear-armed,  with  skins  like  dusky  night, 
And  aspect  blended  of  deep  awe  and  fright. 

The  ship  that  morn  they  saw,  like  some  vast  bird, 
Come  sailing  toward  their  country ; and  they  heard 
The  voices  now  of  those  strange  men  whose  eyes 
Were  turned  aloft,  who  spake  unto  the  skies  ! 

They  heard  and  feared,  not  knowing,  that  first  prayer, 
But  feared  not  when  the  wail  arose,  for  there 
Was  some  familiar  thing  did  not  appall, — 

Grief,  common  heritage  and  lot  of  all. 

They  moved  and  breathed  more  freely  at  the  cry, 

And  slowly  from  the  wood,  and  timorously, 

They  one  by  one  emerged  upon  the  beach. 

The  white  men  saw,  and  like  to  friends  did  reach 
Their  hands  unarmed ; and  soon  the  dusky  crowd 
Drew  nigh  and  stood  where  wailed  the  mother  loud. 
They  claimed  her  kindred,  they  could  understand 
That  woe  was  hers  and  theirs  ; whereas  the  band 
Of  white-skinned  men  did  not  as  brethren  seem. 

But  now,  behold ! a man,  whom  one  would  deem 
From  eye  and  mien,  wherever  met,  a King, 

Did  stand  beside  the  woman.  No  youth’s  spring 
Was  in  the  foot  that  naked  pressed  the  sand  ; 

No  warrior’s  might  was  in  the  long  dark  hand 


690 


JOHN  BOYLE  O'REILLY. 


That  waved  his  people  backward ; no  bright  gold 
Of  lace  or  armor  glittered  ; gaunt  and  old, — 

A belt,  half  apron,  made  of  emu-down, 

Upon  his  loins ; upon  his  head  no  crown 
Save  only  that  which  eighty  years  did  trace 
In  whitened  hair  above  his  furrowed  face. 

Nigh  nude  he  was : a short  fur  boka  hung 
In  toga-folds  upon  his  back,  but  flung 
From  his  right  arm  and  shoulder, — ever  there 
The  spear-arm  of  the  warrior  is  bare. 

So  stood  he  nigh  the  woman,  gaunt  and  wild 
But  king-like,  spearless,  looking  on  the  child 
That  lay  with  livid  face  upon  her  knees. 

Thus  long  and  fixed  he  gazed,  as  one  who  sees 
A symbol  hidden  in  a simple  thing, 

And  trembles  at  its  meaning : so  the  King 
Fell  trembling  there,  and  from  his  breast  there  broke 
A cry,  part  joy,  part  fear ; then  to  his  folk 
With  upraised  hands  he  spoke  one  guttural  word, 
And  said  it  over  thrice  ; and  when  they  heard, 

They,  too,  were  stricken  with  strange  fear  and  joy. 

The  white-haired  King  then  to  the  breathless  boy 
Drew  closer  still,  while  all  the  dusky  crowd 
In  weird  abasement  to  the  earth  were  bowed. 

Across  his  breast  the  aged  ruler  wore 
A leathern  thong  or  belt ; what  e’er  it  bore 
Was  hidden  ’neath  the  boka.  As  he  drew 
Anigli  the  mother,  from  his  side  he  threw 
Far  back  the  skin  that  made  his  ricli-furred  robe, 
And  showed  upon  the  belt  a small  red  globe 
Of  carven  wood,  bright -polished,  as  with  years  : 
When  this  they  saw,  deep  grew  his  people’s  fears, 
And  to  the  white  sand  were  their  foreheads  pressed. 

The  King  then  raised  his  arms,  as  if  he  blest 
The  youth  who  lay  there  seeming  dead  and  cold  ; 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES.  091 

Then  took  the  globe  and  oped  it,  and  behold  ! 

Within  it,  bedded  in  the  carven  case, 

There  lay  a precious  thing  for  that  rude  race 
To  hold,  though  it  as  God  they  seemed  to  prize, — 

A Pearl  of  purest  hue  and  wondrous  size  ! 

And  as  the  sunbeams  kissed  it,  from  the  dead 
The  dusk  King  looked,  and  o’er  his  snowy  head 
With  both  long  hands  he  raised  the  enthroned  gem, 

And  turned  him  toward  the  strangers  : e’en  on  them 
Before  the  lovely  Thing,  an  awe  did  fall 
To  see  that  worship  deep  and  mystical, 

That  King  with  upraised  god,  like  rev’ rent  priest 
With  elevated  Host  at  Christian  feast. 

Then  to  the  mother  turning  slow,  the  King 
Took  out  the  Pearl,  and  laid  the  beauteous  Thing 
Upon  the  dead  boy’s  mouth  and  brow  and  breast, 

And  as  it  touched  him,  lo  ! the  awful  rest 
Of  death  was  broken,  and  the  youth  uprose  ! 

* * * * * * 

Nine  years  passed  over  since  on  that  fair  shore 
The  wanderers  knelt, — but  wanderers  they  no  more. 
With  hopeful  hearts  they  bore  the  promise-pain 
Of  early  labor,  and  soon  bending  grain 
And  herds  and  homesteads  and  a teeming  soil 
A thousand-fold  repaid  their  patient  toil. 

Nine  times  the  sun’s  high  glory  glared  above, 

As  if  his  might  set  naught  on  human  love, 

But  yearned  to  scorn  and  scorch  the  things  that  grew 
On  man’s  poor  home,  till  all  the  forest’s  hue 
Of  blessed  green  was  burned  to  dusty  brown  ; 

And  still  the  ruthless  rays  rained  fiercely  down, 

Till  insects,  reptiles,  shriveled  as  they  lay, 

And  piteous  cracks,  like  lips,  in  parching  clay 
Sent  silent  pleadings  skyward, — as  if  she, 

The  fruitful,  generous  mother,  plaintively 


692 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


Did  wail  for  water.  Lo  ! her  cry  is  heard, 

And  swift,  obedient  to  the  Ruler’s  word, 

From  Southern  iceland  sweeps  the  cool  sea  breeze, 

To  fan  the  earth  and  bless  the  suffering  trees, 

And  bear  dense  clouds  with  bursting  weight  of  rain 
To  soothe  with  moisture  all  the  parching  pain. 

Oh,  Mercy’s  sweetest  symbol ! only  they 
Who  see  the  earth  agape  in  burning  day, 

Who  watch  its  living  things  thirst-stricken  lie, 

And  turn  from  brazen  heaven  as  they  die, — 

Their  hearts  alone,  the  shadowy  cloud  can  prize 
That  veils  the  sun, — as  to  poor  earth-dimmed  eyes 
The  sorrow  comes  to  veil  our  joy’s  dear  face, 

All  rich  in  mercy  and  in  God’s  sweet  grace  ! 

Thrice  welcome,  clouds  from  seaward,  settling  down 
O’er  thirsting  nature ! Now  the  trees’  dull  brown 
Is  washed  away,  and  leaflet  buds  appear, 

And  youngling  undergrowth,  and  far  and  near 
The  bush  is  whispering  in  her  pent-up  glee, 

As  myriad  roots  bestir  them  to  be  free, 

And  drink  the  soaking  moisture  ; while  bright  heaven 
Shows  clear,  as  inland  are  the  spent  clouds  driven  ; 

And  oh  ! that  arch,  that  sky’s  intensate  hue  ! 

That  deep,  God-painted,  unimagined  blue 
Through  which  the  golden  sun  now  smiling  sails, 

And  sends  his  love  to  fructify  the  vales 

That  late  he  seemed  to  curse  ! Earth  throbs  and  heaves 

With  pregnant  prescience  of  life  and  leaves  ; 

The  shadows  darken  ’neath  the  tall  trees’  screen, 

While  round  their  stems  the  rank  and  velvet  green 
Of  undergrowth  is  deeper  still ; and  there, 

Within  the  double  shade  and  steaming  air, 

The  scarlet  palm  has  fixed  its  noxious  root, 

And  hangs  the  glorious  poison  of  its  fruit ; 

And  there,  ’mid  shaded  green  and  shaded  light, 

The  steel-blue  silent  birds  take  rapid  flight 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


693 


From  earth  to  tree  and  tree  to  earth  ; and  there 
The  crimson-plumaged  parrot  cleaves  the  air 
Like  flying  fire,  and  huge  brown  owls  awake 
To  watch,  far  down,  the  stealing  carpet  snake, 
Fresh-skinned  and  glowing  in  his  changing  dyes, 
With  evil  wisdom  in  the  cruel  eyes 
That  glint  like  gems  as  o’er  his  head  flits  by 
The  blue-black  armor  of  the  emperor-fly  ; 

And  all  the  humid  earth  displays  its  powers 
Of  prayer,  with  incense  from  the  hearts  of  flowers 
That  load  the  air  with  beauty  and  with  wine 
Of  mingled  color,  as  with  one  design 
Of  making  there  a carpet  to  be  trod, 

In  woven  splendor,  by  the  feet  of  God  ! 

And  high  o’erhead  is  color  : round  and  round 
The  towering  gums  and  tuads,  closely  wound 
Like  cables,  creep  the  climbers  to  the  sun, 

And  over  all  the  reaching  branches  run 

And  hang,  and  still  send  shoots  that  climb  and  wind 

Till  every  arm  and  spray  and  leaf  is  twined, 

And  miles  of  trees,  like  brethren  joined  in  love, 

Are  drawn  and  laced  ; while  round  them  and  above. 
When  all  is  knit,  the  creeper  rests  for  days 
As  gathering  might,  and  then  one  blinding  blaze 
Of  very  glory  sends,  in  wealth  and  strength, 

Of  scarlet  flowers  o’er  the  forest’s  length ! 

Such  scenes  as  these  have  subtile  power  to  trace 
Their  clear-lined  impress  on  the  mind  and  face  ; 

And  these  strange  simple  folk,  not  knowing  why, 
Grew  more  and  more  to  silence  ; and  the  eye, 

The  quiet  eye  of  Swedish  gray,  grew  deep 
With  listening  to  the  solemn  rustling  sweep 
From  wings  of  Silence,  and  the  earth’s  great  psalm 
Intoned  forever  by  the  forest’s  calm. 

But  most  of  all  was  younger  Jacob  changed  : 

From  morn  till  night,  alone,  the  woods  he  ranged, 


694 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


To  kindred,  pastime,  sympathy  estranged. 

Since  that  first  day  of  landing  from  the  ship 
When  with  the  Pearl  on  brow  and  breast  and  lip 
The  aged  King  had  touched  him  and  he  rose, 

His  former  life  had  left  him,  and  he  chose 
The  woods  as  home,  the  wild,  uncultured  men 
As  friends  and  comrades.  It  were  better  then, 

His  brethren  said,  the  boy  had  truly  died 
Than  they  should  live  to  be  by  him  denied, 

As  now  they  were.  He  lived  in  somber  mood, 

He  spoke  no  word  to  them,  he  broke  no  food 
That  they  did  eat : his  former  life  was  dead, — 

The  soul  brought  back  was  not  the  soul  that  fled  ! 
’Twas  Jacob’s  form  and  feature,  but  the  light 
Within  his  eyes  was  strange  unto  their  sight. 

His  mother’s  grief  was  piteous  to  see  ; 

Unloving  was  he  to  the  rest,  but  she 

Held  undespairing  hope  that  deep  within 

Her  son’s  changed  heart  was  love  that  she  might  win 

By  patient  tenderness  ; and  so  she  strove 

For  nine  long  years,  but  won  no  look  of  love  ! 

At  last  his  brethren  gazed  on  him  with  awe, 

And  knew  untold  that  from  the  form  they  saw 
Their  brother’s  gentle  mind  was  sure  dispelled, 

And  now  a gloomy  savage  soul  it  held. 

From  that  first  day,  close  intercourse  he  had 
With  those  who  raised  him  up, — fierce  men,  unclad, 
Spear-armed  and  wild,  in  all  their  ways  uncouth, 

And  strange  to  every  habit  of  his  youth. 

His  food  they  brought,  his  will  they  seemed  to  crave, 
The  wildest  busliman  tended  like  a slave  ; 

He  worked  their  charms,  their  hideous  chants  he  sung 
Though  dumb  to  all  his  own,  their  guttural  tongue 
He  often  spoke  in  tones  of  curt  command, 

And  kinged  it  proudly  o’er  the  dusky  band. 

And  once  each  year  there  gathered  from  afar 
A swarming  host,  as  if  a sudden  war 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


695 


Had  called  them  forth,  and  with  them  did  they  bring 
In  solemn,  savage  pomp  the  white-haired  King, 

Who  year  by  year  more  withered  was  and  weak  ; 

And  he  would  lead  the  youth  apart  and  speak 
Some  occult  words,  and  from  the  carven  case 
Would  take  the  Pearl  and  touch  the  young  man’s  face, 
And  hold  it  o’er  him  blessing  ; while  the  crowd, 

As  on  the  shore,  in  dumb  abasement  bowed. 

And  when  the  King  had  closed  the  formal  rite, 

The  rest  held  savage  revelry  by  night, 

Round  blazing  fires,  with  dance  and  orgies  base, 

That  roused  the  sleeping  echoes  of  the  place, 

Which  down  the  forest  vistas  moaned  the  din, 

Like  spirits  pure  beholding  impious  sin. 

Nine  times  they  gathered  thus  ; but  on  the  last 
The  old  king’s  waning  life  seemed  well-nigh  past. 

His  feeble  strength  had  failed  : he  walked  no  more, 

But  on  a woven  spear- wood  couch  they  bore 
With  careful  tread  the  form  that  barely  gasped, 

As  if  the  door  of  death  now  hung  unhasped, 

Awaiting  but  a breath  to  swing,  and  show 
The  dim  eternal  plain  that  stretched  below. 

The  tenth  year  waned  : the  cloistered  bush  was  stilled, 
The  earth  lay  sleeping,  while  the  clouds  distilled 
In  ghostly  veil  their  blessing.  Thin  nnd  white, 

Through  opening  trees  the  moonbeams  cleft  the  night, 
And  showed  the  somber  arches,  taller  far 
Than  grandest  aisles  of  built  cathedrals  are. 

And  up  those  dim-lit  aisles  in  silence  streamed 
Tall  men  with  trailing  spears,  until  it  seemed, 

So  many  lines  converged  of  endless  length, 

A nation  there  was  gathered  in  its  strength. 

Around  one  spot  was  kept  a spacious  ring, 

Where  lay  the  body  of  the  white-haired  King, 

Which  all  the  spearmen  gathered  to  behold 
Upon  its  spear-wood  litter,  stiff  and  cold, 


696 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


All  naked,  there  the  dusky  corse  was  laid 
Beneath  a royal  tuad’s  mourning  shade  ; 

Upon  the  breast  was  placed  the  carven  case 
That  held  the  symbol  of  their  ancient  race, 

And  eyes  awe-stricken  saw  the  mystic  Thing 
That  soon  would  clothe  another  as  their  King  ! 

The  midnight  moon  was  high  and  white  o’erhead, 
And  threw  a ghastly  pallor  round  the  dead 
That  heightened  still  the  savage  pomp  and  state 
In  which  they  stood  expectant,  as  for  Fate 
To  move  and  mark  with  undisputed  hand 
The  one  amongst  them  to  the  high  command. 

And  long  they  stood  unanswered  ; each  on  each 
Had  looked  in.  vain  for  motion  or  for  speech  : 
Unmoved  as  ebon  statues,  grand  and  tall, 

They  ringed  the  shadowy  circle,  silent  all. 

Then  came  a creeping  tremor,  as  a breeze 
With  cooling  rustle  moves  the  summer  trees 
Before  the  thunder  crashes  on  the  ear  ; 

The  dense  ranks  turn  expectant,  as  they  hear 
A sound,  at  first  afar,  but  nearing  fast ; 

The  outer  crowd  divides,  as  waves  are  cast 
On  either  side  a tall  ship’s  cleaving  bow, 

Or  mold  is  parted  by  the  fearless  plow 
That  leaves  behind  a passage  clear  and  broad : 

So  through  the  murmuring  multitude  a road 
Was  cleft  with  power,  up  which  in  haughty  swing 
A figure  stalking  broke  the  sacred  ring. 

And  stood  beside  the  body  of  the  King ! 

’Twas  Jacob  Eibsen,  sad  and  gloomy-browed, 

Who  bared  his  neck  and  breast,  one  moment  bowed 
Above  the  corse,  and  then  stood  proud  and  tall, 

And  held  the  carven  case  before  them  all ! 

A breath  went  upward  like  a smothered  fright 
From  every  heart,  to  see  that  face,  so  white, 

So  foreign  to  their  own,  but  marked  with  might 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


697 


From  source  unquestioned,  and  to  them  divine  ; 

Whilst  he,  the  master  of  the  mystic  sign, 

Then  oped  the  case  and  took  the  Pearl  and  raised, 

As  erst  the  King  had  done,  and  upward  gazed, 

As  swearing  fealty  to  God  on  high ! 

But  ere  the  oath  took  form,  there  thrilled  a cry 
Of  shivering  horror  through  the  hush  of  night ; 

And  there  before  him,  blinded  by  the  sight 
Of  all  his  impious  purpose,  brave  with  love, 

His  mother  stood,  and  stretched  her  arms  above 
To  tear  the  idol  from  her  darling’s  hand  ; 

But  one  fierce  look,  and  rang  a harsh  command 
In  Jacob’s  voice,  that  smote  her  like  a sword. 

A thousand  men  sprang  forward  at  the  word, 

To  tear  the  mother  from  the  form  of  stone, 

And  cast  her  forth  ; but,  as  he  stood  alone, 

The  keen,  heart-broken  wail  that  cut  the  air 

Went  two-edged  through  him,  half  reproach,  half  prayer. 

But  all  unheeding,  he  nor  marked  her  cry 
By  sign  or  look  within  the  gloomy  eye  ; 

But  round  his  body  bound  the  carven  case, 

And  swore  the  fealty  with  marble  face. 

As  fades  a dream  before  slow- waking  sense, 

The  shadowy  host,  that  late  stood  fixed  and  dense, 
Began  to  melt ; and  as  they  came  erewhile, 

The  streams  flowed  backward  through  each  moonlit  aisle ; 
And  soon  he  stood  alone  within  the  place, 

Their  new-made  king, — their  king  with  pallid  face, 

Their  king  with  strange  foreboding  and  unrest, 

And  half-formed  thoughts,  like  dreams,  within  his  breast. 
Like  Moses’  rod,  that  mother’s  cry  of  woe 
Had  struck  for  water  ; but  the  fitful  flow 
That  weakly  welled  and  streamed  did  seem  to  mock 
Before  it  died  forever  on  the  rock. 

The  sun  rose  o’er  the  forest,  and  his  light 
Made  still  more  dreamlike  all  the  evil  night. 


698 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


Day  streamed  his  glory  down  the  aisles’  dim  arch, 

All  hushed  and  shadowy  like  a pillared  church  ; 

And  through  the  lonely  bush  no  living  thing 
Was  seen,  save  now  and  then  a garish  wing 
Of  bird  low-flying  on  its  silent  way. 

But  woeful  searchers  spent  the  weary  day 

In  anxious  dread,  and  found  not  what  they  sought, — 

Their  mother  and  their  brother : evening  brought 

A son  and  father  to  the  lonesome  place 

That  saw  the  last  night’s  scene  ; and  there,  her  face 

Laid  earthward,  speaking  dumbly  to  her  heart, 

They  found  her,  as  the  hands  that  tore  apart 
The  son  and  mother  flung  her  from  their  chief, 

And  with  one  cry  her  heart  had  spent  its  grief. 

They  bore  the  cold  earth  that  so  late  did  move 
In  household  happiness  and  works  of  love, 

Unto  their  rude  home,  lonely  now  ; and  he 
Who  laid  her  there,  from  present  misery 
Did  turn  away,  half-blinded  by  his  tears, 

To  see  with  inward  eye  the  far-off  years 
When  Swedish  toil  was  light  and  hedgerows  sweet ; 
Where,  when  the  toil  was  o’  er,  he  used  to  meet 
A simple  gray-eyed  girl,  with  sun-browned  face, 

Whose  love  had  won  his  heart,  and  whose  sweet  grace 
Had  blessed  for  threescore  years  his  humble  life. 

So  Jacob  Eibsen  mourned  his  faithful  wife, 

And  found  the  world  no  home  when  she  was  gone. 

The  days  that  seemed  of  old  to  hurry  on 

How  dragged  their  course,  and  marred  the  wish  that  grew, 

When  first  he  saw  her  grave,  to  sleep  there  too. 

But  though  to  him,  whose  yearning  hope  outran 
The  steady  motion  of  the  seasons’  plan, 

The  years  were  slow  in  coming,  still  their  pace 
With  awful  sureness  left  a solemn  trace, 

Like  dust  that  settles  on  an  open  page, 

On  Jacob  Eibsen’ s head,  bent  down  writh  age  ; 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


699 


And  ere  twice  more  the  soothing  rains  had  come, 

The  old  man  had  his  wish,  and  to  his  home, 

Beneath  the  strange  trees’  shadow  where  she  lay, 

They  bore  the  rude-made  bier  ; and  from  that  day, 

When  round  the  parent  graves  the  brethren  stood, 

Their  new-made  homesteads  were  no  longer  good, 

But  marked  they  seemed  by  some  o’erhanging  dread 
That  linked  the  living  with  the  dreamless  dead. 

Grown  silent  with  the  woods  the  men  were  all, 

But  words  were  needed  not  to  note  the  pall 
That  each  one  knew  hung  o’er  them.  Duties  now, 

With  straying  herds  or  swinging  scythe,  or  plow, 

Were  cheerless  tasks  : like  men  they  were  who  wrought 
A weary  toil  that  no  repayment  brought. 

And  when  the  seasons  came  and  went,  and  still 
The  pall  was  hanging  o’er  them,  with  one  will 
They  yoked  their  oxen  teams  and  piled  the  loads 
Of  gear  selected  for  the  aimless  roads 
That  nature  opens  through  the  bush  ; and  when 
The  train  was  ready,  women-folk  and  men 
Went  over  to  the  graves  and  wept  and  prayed, 

Then  rose  and  turned  away,  but  still  delayed 
Ere  leaving  there  forever  those  poor  mounds. 

The  next  bright  sunrise  heard  the  teamsters’  sounds 
Of  voice  and  whip  a long  day’s  march  away  ; 

And  wider  still  the  space  grew  day  by  day 
From  their  old  resting-place  : the  trackless  wood 
Still  led  them  on  with  promises  of  good, 

As  when  the  mirage  leads  a thirsty  band 
With  palm-tree  visions  o’er  the  arid  sand. 

I know  not  where  they  settled  down  at  last : 

Their  lives  and  homes  from  out  my  tale  have  passed, 

And  left  me  naught,  or  seeming  naught,  to  trace 
But  cheerless  record  of  the  empty  place, 

Where  long  unseen  the  palm-thatched  cabins  stood, 

And  made  more  lonely  still  the  lonesome  wood. 


700 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


Long  lives  of  men  passed  over  ; but  the  years 
That  line  men’s  faces  with  hard  cares  and  tears, 

Pass  lightly  o’er  a forest,  leaving  there 
No  wreck  of  young  disease  or  old  despair ; 

For  trees  are  mightier  than  men,  and  Time, 

When  left  by  cunning  Sin  and  dark-browed  Crime 
To  work  alone,  hath  ever  gentle  mood. 

Unchanged  the  pillars  and  the  arches  stood, 

But  shadowed  taller  vistas  ; and  the  earth, 

That  takes  and  gives  the  ceaseless  death  and  birth, 
Was  blooming  still,  as  once  it  bloomed  before 
When  sea-tired  eyes  beheld  the  beauteous  shore. 

But  man’s  best  work  is  weak,  nor  stands  nor  grows 
Like  Nature’s  simplest.  Every  breeze  that  blows, 
Health-bearing  to  the  forest,  plays  its  part 
In  hasting  graveward  all  his  humble  art. 

Beneath  the  trees  the  cabins  still  remained, 

By  all  the  changing  seasons  seared  and  stained ; 
Grown  old  and  weirdlike,  as  the  folk  might  grow 
In  such  a place,  who  left  them  long  ago. 

Men  came,  and  wondering  found  the  work  of  men 
Where  they  had  deemed  them  first.  The  savage  then 
Heard  through  the  wood  the  axe’s  deathwatcli  stroke 
For  him  and  all  his  people : odorous  smoke 
Of  burning  sandal  rose  where  white  men  dwelt, 
Around  the  huts  ; but  they  had  shuddering  felt 
The  weird,  forbidden  aspect  of  the  spot, 

And  left  the  place  untouched  to  mold  and  rot. 

The  woods  grew  blithe  with  labor : all  around, 

From  point  to  point,  was  heard  the  hollow  sound, 

The  solemn,  far-off  clicking  on  the  ear 
That  marks  the  presence  of  the  pioneer. 

And  children  came  like  flowers  to  bless  the  toil 
That  reaped  rich  fruitage  from  the  virgin  soil ; 

And  through  the  woods  they  wandered  fresh  and  fair, 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES.  701 

To  feast  on  all  the  beauties  blooming  there. 

But  always  did  they  shun  the  spot  where  grew, 

From  earth  once  tilled,  the  flowers  of  rarest  hue. 

There  wheat  grown  wild  in  rank  luxuriance  spread. 

And  fruits  grown  native  ; but  a sudden  tread 
Or  bramble’s  fall  would  foul  goanos  wake, 

Or  start  the  chilling  rustle  of  the  snake  ; 

And  diamond  eyes  of  these  and  thousand  more 
Gleamed  out  from  ruined  roof  and  wall  and  floor. 

The  new-come  people,  they  whose  axes  rung 
Throughout  the  forest,  spoke  the  English  tongue, 

And  never  knew  that  men  of  other  race 
From  Europe’s  fields  had  settled  in  the  place  ; 

But  deemed  these  huts  were  built  some  long-past  day 
By  lonely  seamen  who  were  cast  away 
And  thrown*upon  the  coast,  who  there  had  built 
Their  homes,  and  lived  until  some  woe  or  guilt 
Was  bred  among  them,  and  they  fled  the  sight 
Of  scenes  that  held  a horror  to  the  light. 

But  while  they  thought  such  things,  the  spell  that  hung, 
And  cast  its  shadow  o’er  the  place,  was  strung 
To  utmost  tension  that  a breath  would  break, 

And  show  between  the  rifts  the  deep  blue  lake 
Of  blessed  peace, — as  next  to  sorrow  lies 
A stretch  of  rest,  rewarding  hopeful  eyes. 

And  while  such  things  bethought  this  new-come  folk, 
That  breath  was  breathed,  the  olden  spell  was  broke  : 
From  far  away  within  the  unknown  land, 

O’er  belts  of  forest  and  o’er  wastes  of  sand, 

A cry  came  thrilling,  like  a cry  of  pain 
From  suffering  heart  and  half -a wakened  brain  ; 

As  one  thought  dead  who  wakes  within  the  tomb. 

And,  reaching,  cries  for  sunshine  in  the  gloom. 

In  that  strange  country’s  heart,  whence  comes  the  breath 
Of  hot  disease  and  pestilential  death, 

Lie  leagues  of  wooded  swamp,  that  from  the  hills 


702 


JOHN  BOYLE  O*  REILLY. 


Seem  stretching  meadows  ; but  the  flood  that  fills 
Those  valley-basins  has  the  hue  of  ink, 

And  dismal  doorways  open  on  the  brink, 

Beneath  the  gnarled  arms  of  trees  that  grow 
All  leafless  to  the  top,  from  roots  below 
The  Lethe  flood  ; and  he  who  enters  there 
Beneath  their  screen  sees  rising,  gliastly-bare, 

Like  mammoth  bones  within  a charnel  dark, 

The  white  and  ragged  stems  of  paper-bark, 

That  drip  down  moisture  with  a ceaseless  drip, 
From  lines  that  run  like  cordage  of  a ship  ; , 

For  myriad  creepers  struggle  to  the  light, 

And  twine  and  mat  o’erliead  in  murderous  fight 
For  life  and  sunshine,  like  another  race 
That  wars  on  brethren  for  the  highest  place. 
Between  the  water  and  the  matted  screen* 

The  baldhead  vultures,  two  and  two,  are  seen 
In  dismal  grandeur,  with  revolting  face 
Of  foul  grotesque,  like  spirits  of  the  place  ; 

And  now  and  then  a spear-shaped  wave  goes  by, 

Its  apex  glittering  with  an  evil  eye 
That  sets  above  its  enemy  and  prey, 

As  from  the  wave  in  treacherous,  slimy  way 
The  black  snake  winds,  and  strikes  the  bestial  bird, 
Whose  sliriek-like  wailing  on  the  hills  is  heard. 

Beyond  this  circling  swamp,  a circling  waste 
Of  baked  and  barren  desert  land  is  placed, — 

A land  of  awful  grayness,  wild  and  stark, 

Where  man  will  never  leave  a deeper  mark, 

On  leagues  of  fissured  clay  and  scorching  stones, 
Than  may  be  printed  there  by  bleaching  bones. 
Within  this  belt,  that  keeps  a savage  guard, 

As  round  a treasure  sleeps  a dragon  ward, 

A forest  stretches  far  of  precious  trees  ; 

Whence  came,  one  day,  an  odor-laden  breeze 
Of  jam-wood  bruised,  and  sandal  sweet  in  smoke. 
For  there  long  dwelt  a numerous  native  folk 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


703 


In  that  heart-garden  of  the  continent, — 

There  human  lives  with  aims  and  fears  were  spent, 
And  marked  by  love  and  hate  and  peace  and  pain, 
And  hearts  well-filled  and  hearts  athirst  for  gain, 
And  lips  that  clung,  and  faces  bowed  in  shame  ; 
For,  wild  or  polished,  man  is  still  the  same, 

And  loves  and  hates  and  envies  in  the  wood, 

With  spear  and  boka  and  with  manners  rude, 

As  loves  and  hates  his  brother  shorn  and  sleek, 
Who  learns  by  lifelong  practice  how  to  speak 
With  oily  tongue,  while  in  his  heart  below 
Lies  rankling  poison  that  he  dare  not  show. 

Afar  from  all  new  ways  this  people  dwelt, 

And  knew  no  books,  and  to  no  God  had  knelt, 
And  had  no  codes  to  rule  them  writ  in  blood ; 

But  savage,  selfish,  nomad-lived  and  rude, 

With  human  passions  fierce  from  unrestraint, 

And  free  as  their  loose  limbs  ; with  every  taint 
That  earth  can  give  to  that  which  God  has  given  ; 
Their  nearest  glimpse  of  Him,  o’er-arching  heaven, 
Where  dwelt  the  giver  and  preserver, — Light, 
Who  daily  slew  and  still  was  slain  by  Night. 

A savage  people  they,  and  prone  to  strife ; 

Yet  men  grown  weak  with  years  had  spent  a life 
Of  peace  unbroken,  and  their  sires,  long  dead, 

Had  equal  lives  of  peace  unbroken  led. 

It  was  no  statute’ s bond  or  coward  fear 
Of  retribution  kept  the  shivering  spear 
In  all  those  years  from  fratricidal  sheath  ; 

But  one  it  was  who  ruled  them, — one  whom  Heath 
Had  passed  as  if  he  saw  not, — one  whose  word 
Through  all  that  lovely  central  land  was  heard 
And  bowed  to,  as  of  yore  the  people  bent, 

In  desert  wanderings,  to  a leader  sent 
To  guide  and  guard  them  to  a promised  land. 

O’er  all  the  Austral  tribes  he  held  command, — 


704 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


A man  unlike  them  and  not  of  their  race, 

A man  of  flowing  hair  and  pallid  face, 

A man  who  strove  by  no  deft  juggler’s  art 
To  keep  his  kingdom  in  the  people’s  heart, 

Nor  held  his  place  by  feats  of  brutal  might 
Or  showy  skill,  to  please  the  savage  sight ; 

But  one  who  ruled  them  as  a King  of  kings, 

A man  above,  not  of  them, — one  who  brings, 

To  prove  his  kingship  to  the  low  and  high, 

The  inborn  power  of  the  regal  eye ! 

Like  him  of  Sinai  with  the  stones  of  law, 

Whose  people  almost  worshiped  when  they  saw 
The  veiled  face  whereon  God’s  glory  burned  ; 

But  yet  who,  mutable  as  water,  turned 

From  that  veiled  ruler  who  had  talked  with  God, 

To  make  themselves  an  idol  from  a clod  : 

So  turned  one  day  this  savage  Austral  race 
Against  their  monarch  with  the  pallid  face. 

The  young  men  knew  him  not,  the  old  had  heard 
In  far-off  days,  from  men  grown  old,  a word 
That  dimly  lighted  up  the  mystic  choice 
Of  this  their  alien  King, — how  once  a voice 
Was  heard  by  their  own  monarch  calling  clear, 

And  leading  onward,  where  as  on  a bier 
A dead  child  lay  upon  a woman’s  knees  ; 

Whom  when  the  old  King  saw,  like  one  who  sees 
Far  through  the  mist  of  common  life,  he  spoke 
And  touched  him  with  the  Pearl,  and  he  awoke, 

And  from  that  day  the  people  owned  his  right 
To  wear  the  Pearl  and  rule  them,  when  the  light 
Had  left  their  old  King’s  eyes.  But  now,  they  said, 
The  men  who  owned  that  right  were  too  long  dead ; 
And  they  were  young  and  strong  and  held  their  spears 
In  idle  resting  through  this  white  King’s  fears, 

Who  still  would  live  to  rule  them  till  they  changed 
Their  men  to  puling  women,  and  estranged 
To  Austral  hands  the  spear  and  coila  grew. 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES.  705 

And  so  they  rose  against  him,  and  they  slew 

The  white-haired  men  who  raised  their  hands  to  warn, 

And  true  to  ancient  trust  in  warning  fell, 

While  o’er  them  rang  the  tierce  revolters’  yell. 

Then  midst  the  dead  uprose  the  King  in  scorn, 

Like  some  strong,  hunted  thing  that  stands  at  bay 
To  win  a brief  but  desperate  delay. 

A moment  thus,  and  those  within  the  ring 
’ Gan  backward  press  from  their  unarmed  King, 

Who  swept  his  hand  as  though  he  bade  them  fly, 

And  brave  no  more  the  anger  of  his  eye. 

The  heaving  crowd  grew  still  before  that  face, 

And  watched  him  take  the  ancient  carven  case, 

And  ope  it  there,  and  take  the  Pearl  and  stand 
As  once  before  he  stood,  with  upraised  hand 
And  upturned  eyes  of  inward  worshiping. 

Awe-struck  and  dumb,  once  more  they  owned  him  King, 
And  humbly  crouched  before  him  ; when  a sound, 

A whirring  sound  that  thrilled  them,  passed  o’erhead, 
And  with  a spring  they  rose . a spear  had  sped 
With  aim  unerring  and  with  deathful  might, 

And  split  the  awful  center  of  their  sight, — 

The  upraised  Pearl ! A moment  there  it  shone 
Before  the  spear-point, — then  forever  gone  ! 

****** 

The  spell  that  long  the  ruined  huts  did  shroud 
Was  rent  and  scattered,  as  a hanging  cloud 
In  moveless  air  is  torn  and  blown  away 
By  sudden  gust  uprising  ; and  one  day 
When  evening’s  lengthened  shadows  came  to  hush 
The  children’s  voices,  and  the  awful  bush 
Was  lapt  in  somber  stillness,  and  on  high 
Above  the  arches  stretched  the  frescoed  sky, — 

When  all  the  scene  such  chilling  aspect  wore 
As  marked  one  other  night  long  years  before, 

When  through  the  reaching  trees  the  moonlight  shone 


706 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 

Upon  a prostrate  form,  and  o’er  it  one 
With  kingly  gesture.  Now  the  light  is  shed 
No  more  on  youthful  brow  and  daring  head, 

But  on  a man  grown  weirdly  old,  whose  face 
Keeps  turning  ever  to  some  new-found  place 
That  rises  up  before  him  like  a dream  ; 

And  not  unlike  a dreamer  does  he  seem, 

Who  might  have  slept,  unheeding  time’s  sure  flow, 
And  woke  to  find  a world  he  does  not  know. 

His  long  white  hair  flows  o’er  a form  low  bowed 
By  wondrous  weight  of  years  : he  speaks  aloud 
In  garbled  Swedish  words,  with  piteous  wist, 

As  long-lost  objects  rise  through  memory’s  mist. 
Again  and  once  again  his  pace  he  stays, 

As  crowding  images  of  other  days 

Loom  up  before  him  dimly,  and  he  sees 

A vague,  forgotten  friendship  in  the  trees 

That  reach  their  arms  in  welcome ; but  agen 

These  olden  glimpses  vanish,  and  dark  men 

Are  round  him,  dumb  and  crouching,  and  he  stands 

With  guttural  sentences  and  upraised  hands, 

That  hold  a carven  case, — but  empty  now, 

Which  makes  more  pitiful  the  aged  brow 
Full-turned  to  those  tall  tuads  that  did  hear 
A son’s  fierce  mandate  and  a mother’s  prayer. 

Ah,  God  ! what  memories  can  live  of  these, 

Save  only  with  the  half-immortal  trees 
That  saw  the  death  of  one,  the  other  lost  ? 

The  weird-like  figure  now  the  bush  has  crost 
And  stands  within  the  ring,  and  turns  and  moans, 

W ith  arms  out-reaching  and  heart-piercing  tones, 
And  groping  hands,  as  one  a long  time  blind 
Who  sees  a glimmering  light  on  eye  and  mind. 

From  tree  to  sky  he  turns,  from  sky  to  earth, 

And  gasps  as  one  to  whom  a second  birth 
Of  wondrous  meaning  is  an  instant  shown. 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


707 


Who  is  this  wreck  of  years,  who  all  alone, 

In  savage  raiment  and  with  words  unknown, 

Bows  down  like  some  poor  penitent  who  fears 
The  wrath  of  God  provoked  ? — this  man  who  hears 
Around  him  now,  wide  circling  through  the  wood, 
The  breathing  stillness  of  a multitude  ? 

Who  catches  dimly  through  his  straining  sight 
The  misty  vision  of  an  impious  rite  ? 

Who  hears  from  one  a cry  that  rends  his  heart, 
And  feels  that  loving  arms  are  torn  apart, 

And  by  his  mandate  fiercely  thrust  aside  ? 

Who  is  this  one  who  crouches  where  she  died, 
With  face  laid  earthward  as  her  face  was  laid, 

And  prays  for  her  as  she  for  him  once  prayed  ? 

’Tis  Jacob  Eibsen,  Jacob  Eibsen’ s son, 

Whose  occult  life  and  mystic  rule  are  done, 

And  passed  away  the  memory  from  his  brain. 

’Tis  Jacob  Eibsen,  who  has  come  again 

To  roam  the  woods,  and  see  the  mournful  gleams 

That  flash  and  linger  of  his  old-time  dreams. 

The  morning  found  him  where  he  sank  to  rest 
Within  the  mystic  circle : on  his  breast 
With  withered  hands,  as  to  the  dearest  place, 

He  held  and  pressed  the  empty  carven  case. 

That  day  he  sought  the  dwellings  of  his  folk  ; 

And  when  he  found  them,  once  again  there  broke 
The  far-off  light  upon  him,  and  he  cried 
From  that  wrecked  cabin  threshold  for  a guide 
To  lead  him,  old  and  weary,  to  his  own. 

And  surely  some  kind  spirit  heard  his  moan, 

And  led  him  to  the  graves  where  they  were  laid. 
The  evening  found  him  in  the  tuads’  shade, 

And  like  a child  at  work  upon  the  spot 
Where  they  were  sleeping,  though  he  knew  it  not. 


708 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


Next  day  the  children  found  him,  and  they  gazed 
In  fear  at  first,  for  they  were  sore  amazed 
To  see  a man  so  old  they  never  knew, 

Whose  garb  was  savage,  and  whose  white  hair  grew 
And  flowed  upon  his  shoulders  ; but  their  awe 
Was  changed  to  love  and  pity  when  they  saw 
The  simple  work  he  wrought  at ; and  they  came 
And  gathered  flowers  for  him,  and  asked  his  name, 

And  laughed  at  his  strange  language ; and  he  smiled 
To  hear  them  laugh,  as  though  himself  a child. 

Ere  that  brief  day  was  o’er,  from  far  and  near 
The  children  gathered,  wondering ; and  though  fear 
Of  scenes  a long  time  shunned  at  first  restrained, 

The  spell  was  broken,  and  soon  naught  remained 
But  gladsome  features,  where  of  old  was  dearth 
Of  happy  things  and  cheery  sounds  of  mirth. 

The  lizards  fled,  the  snakes  and  bright-eyed  things 
Found  other  homes,  where  childhood  never  sings  ; 

And  all  because  poor  Jacob,  old  and  wild, 

White-haired  and  fur-clad,  was  himself  a child. 

Each  day  he  lived  amid  these  scenes,  his  ear 
Heard  far-off  voices  growing  still  more  clear ; 

And  that  dim  light  that  first  he  saw  in  gleams 
Now  left  him  only  in  his  troubled  dreams. 

From  far  away  the  children  loved  to  come 
And  play  and  work  with  Jacob  at  his  home. 

He  learned  their  simple  words  with  childish  lip, 

And  told  them  often  of  a white-sailed  ship 

That  sailed  across  a mighty  sea,  and  found 

A beauteous  harbor,  all  encircled  round 

With  flowers  and  tall  green  trees ; but  when  they  asked 

What  did  the  shipmen  then,  his  mind  was  tasked 

Beyond  its  strength,  and  Jacob  shook  his  head, 

And  with  them  laughed,  for  all  he  knew  was  said. 

The  brawny  sawyers  often  ceased  their  toil, 

As  Jacob  with  the  children  passed,  to  smile 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


709 


With  rugged  pity  on  their  simple  play  ; 

Then,  gazing  after  the  glad  group,  would  say 
How  strange  it  was  to  see  that  snowy  hair 
And  time-worn  figure  with  the  children  fair. 

So  Jacob  Eibsen  lived  through  years  of  joy,— 

A patriarch  in  age,  in  heart  a boy. 

Unto  the  last  he  told  them  of  the  sea 
And  white-sailed  ship  ; and  ever  lovingly, 

Unto  the  end,  the  garden  he  had  made 
He  tended  daily,  ’neath  the  tuads’  shade. 

But  one  bright  morning,  when  the  children  came 
And  roused  the  echoes  calling  Jacob’s  name, 

The  echoes  only  answered  back  the  sound. 

They  sought  within  the  huts,  but  nothing  found 
Save  loneliness  and  shadow,  falling  chill 
On  every  sunny  searcher  : boding  ill, 

They  tried  each  well-known  haunt,  and  every  throat 
Sent  far  abroad  the  bush  man’s  cooing  note. 

But  all  in  vain  their  searching  : twilight  fell, 

And  sent  them  home  their  sorrowing  tale  to  tell. 
That  night  their  elders  formed  a torch-lit  chain 
To  sweep  the  gloomy  bush  ; and  not  in  vain, — 

For  when  the  moon  at  midnight  hung  o’erhead, 

The  weary  searchers  found  poor  Jacob — dead  ! 

He  lay  within  the  tuad  ring,  his  face 

Laid  earthward  on  his  hands  ; and  all  the  place 

Was  dim  with  shadow  where  the  people  stood. 

And  as  they  gathered  there,  the  circling  wood 
Seemed  filled  with  awful  whisperings,  and  stirred 
By  things  unseen  ; and  every  bushman  heard, 

From  where  the  corse  lay  plain  within  their  sight, 

A woman’ s heart- wail  rising  on  the  night. 

For  over  all  the  darkness  and  the  fear 

That  marked  his  life  from  childhood,  shining  clear, 


710 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


An  arch,  like  God’s  bright  rainbow,  stretched  above, 
And  joined  the  first  and  last, — his  mother’s  love. 

They  dug  a grave  beneath  the  tuads’  shade, 

Where  all  unknown  to  them  the  bones  were  laid 
Of  Jacob’s  kindred  ; and  a prayer  was  said 
In  earnest  sorrow  for  the  unknown  dead, 

Round  which  the  children  grouped. 

Upon  the  breast 

The  hands  were  folded  in  eternal  rest ; 

But  still  they  held,  as  dearest  to  that  place 
Where  life  last  throbbed,  the  empty  carven  case. 


SPEECHES 

DELIVERED  BY 

John  Boyle  O’Reilly. 


711 


THE  COMMON  CITIZEN-SOLDIER. 


Address  delivered  on  Decoration  Day,  May  31,  1886, 
by  John  Boyle  O’Reilly,  before  the  Grand  Army 
of  the  Republic  of  Everett,  Mass. 


ETERANS  of  the  Grand  Army  : You  are  the  ora- 


tors of  Decoration  Day,  no  matter  who  may  be  the 
speakers.  You  and  your  flowers  and  your  medals,  your 
empty  sleeves  and  your  graves,  thrill  all  hearts  into  patriot- 
ism by  your  silent  and  visible  eloquence.  Yours  is  the  sor- 
row that  makes  us  forget  the  dismal  countenance  of  death. 
When  you  enter  the  graveyards  they  become  gardens 
through  which  we  walk  with  smiles,  not  with  tears.  You 
do  not  march  to  the  graves  of  your  comrades  with  black 
feathers  and  gloomy  faces,  but  laden  with  blossoms,  and 
smiling  at  the  effacing  fingers  of  death. 

The  war  is  behind  you  like  a sunset,  and  we  must  stand 
and  see  the  glory  from  the  hill.  “ The  sun  is  down,  and 
all  the  west  is  paved  with  sullen  fire.” 

Millions  of  Americans  stand  full  grown  who  were  not 
born  when  you  fired  your  last  shot.  Year  by  year  that 
‘ ‘ sullen  fire  ’ ’ sinks  into  the  west,  and  wider  and  wider  the 
gaps  in  your  ranks  show  against  the  light. 

In  a few  more  years  the  evening  will  have  descended 
and  the  figures  will  disappear,  and  the  night  of  history 
will  have  closed  upon  the  war.  For  the  middle-aged  and 
the  old,  you  still  unroll  the  memory  of  the  great  diorama. 
The  deep-lined  pictures  that  are  darkened  in  their  memory 
for  the  other  days  of  the  year  are  unveiled  by  your  hands 
to-day,  But  for  those  who  have  no  memory  of  the  war  ; 


713 


714 


JOHN  BOYLE  o’KEILLY. 


who  were  not  born  or  were  infants  when  you  returned  from 
the  field,  your  memorial  parade  has  strange  power  to  im- 
part the  thrill  of  that  first  wild  war-note,  which  the  poet 
describes  : 

Forty  years  had  I in  my  city  seen  soldiers  parading  ; 

Forty  years  as  a pageant,  till,  unawares,  the  mother  of  this 
teeming  and  turbulent  city, 

Sleepless  amid  her  ships,  her  houses,  her  incalculable  wealth, 

With  her  million  children  around  her,  suddenly, 

At  dead  of  night,  at  news  from  the  South, 

Incensed,  struck  with  clenched  hand  the  pavement  ! 

And  then  from  the  houses  and  the  workshops,  and 
through  all  the  doorways  the  strong  men  leapt,  tumultuous, 
and  lo  ! the  North,  armed,  marching  southward  to  the 
conflict ! 

The  personal  history  and  reminiscences  of  the  war, 
however  interesting,  have  a lessening  influence.  The  war 
was  greater  than  its  campaigns  and  its  generals  ; and  the 
stories  of  the  actors,  however  impressive,  have  the  same 
relation  to  the  vast  struggle  as  a rolling  pebble  to  the  side 
of  Himalaya. 

There  are  those  who  hold  that  the  War  for  the  Union 
was  a calamitous  mistake  ; that  it  was  unnecessary  ; that 
statesmanship  could  have  averted  it ; that  it  was  precipi- 
tated by  a few  extreme  and  unwise  radicals  here  in  Mas- 
sachusetts. 

There  are  again  those  who  declare  that  all  war  is  evil, 
and  that  the  best  results  are  too  dearly  bought  by  deadly 
strife.  “War  is  a crime,”  said  Brougham,  “which  in- 
volves all  crime.”  “I  prefer  the  hardest  terms  of  peace 
to  the  most  just  war,”  said  Fox;  and  Daniel  O'Connell, 
while  leading  a people  to  higher  rights,  declared  solemnly 
that  even  the  life  of  the  nation  was  “not  worth  a drop  of 
blood.” 

Two  years  before  the  battle  of  Bunker  Hill,  Benjamin 
Franklin  declared  against  war.  Writing  to  Josiah  Quincy 
in  1775,  Franklin  said  : “ There  never  was  a good  war  or  a 
bad  peace,”  Franklin,  however,  admitted  a few  years 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES.  715 

later  that  “even  peace  may  be  purchased  at  too  high  a 
price.’  ’ 

These,  it  may  be  said,  are  the  extreme  views  of  states- 
men and  reformers ; but  it  is  remarkable  that  the  views 
most  nearly  agreeing  with  them  are  those  of  the  most 
renowned  soldiers. 

“War,”  said  Napoleon,  “is  the  trade  of  barbarians.” 
Wellington  said  : “Take  my  word  for  it,  if  you  had  seen 
but  one  day  of  war  you  would  pray  to  Almighty  God  that 
you  might  never  see  such  a thing  again.”  And  these  are 
the  strong  words  of  General  Grant:  “Although  a soldier 
by  profession,  I have  never  felt  any  fondness  for  war,  and 
I have  never  advocated  it  except  as  a means  of  peace.” 

From  the  beginning  of  this  republic,  the  American  view 
of  war  was  nobler  and  wiser  than  that  of  any  other  nation. 
The  “horrid  front”  of  America  was  never  that  of  a 
despoiler  or  marauder  or  vainglory-seeker.  “I  heard 
the  bullets  whistle,”  wrote  Washington  to  his  mother, 
after  his  first  battle,  “and  believe  me,  there  is  something 
charming  in  the  sound.”  There  would  have  been  no 
charm  for  the  noble  soul  had  the  cause  of  the  battle  been 
unrighteous. 

“War,”  said  Longfellow,  “is  a terrible  trade,  but  in 
the  cause  that  is  righteous,  sweet  is  the  smell  of  powder.” 

Until  avarice  and  lust  of  power  and  pride  are  taken 
from  men’s  hearts,  they  will  commit  wrong  by  violence, 
and  the  injured  ones  will  retaliate  and  defend  themselves. 
It  is  not  the  Christian  way,  but  it  is  the  way  of  the  world. 
We  are  still  so  far  from  the  mysterious  wisdom  of  conquest 
by  submission — of  losing  ourselves  to  find  ourselves  ! We 
are  living  in  a Christian  civilization,  of  course  ; but  in  the 
shadow  of  our  law  books,  and  the  glitter  of  our  bayonets, 
how  far  off  and  impracticable  are  these  words : “You  have 
heard  that  it  hath  been  said  : An  eye  for  an  eye  and  a tooth 
for  a tooth.  But  I say  to  you  not  to  resist  evil ; but  if  one 
strike  thee  on  the  right  cheek,  turn  to  him  the  other  also. 
And  if  a man  will  contend  with  thee  in  judgment,  and  take 
away  thy  coat,  let  go  thy  cloak  also  unto  him.  And 


716  JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 

whosoever  will  force  thee  one  mile,  go  with  him  the  other 
two.” 

From  strange  teaching  like  this  we  are  compelled  to 
come  back  to  the  provisions  of  Congress,  the  laws  of  good 
taste  and  trade,  and  the  morality  of  Gatling  guns. 

Beautiful  as  our  Decoration  Day  surely  is  with  sun- 
shine and  flowers,  and  thrilling  associations,  still  it  is  not 
a day  for  public  reading  of  our  Saviour’s  “ Sermon  on  the 
Mount.” 

It  is  our  day  of  lovely  Paganism,  which  we  observe  with 
Christian  ceremonies. 

Under  present  unregenerate  conditions  war  is  a neces- 
sity, and  the  soldier’s  trade  is  an  honorable  one.  While 
men  and  nations  are  ambitious  and  unscrupulous,  readiness 
to  fight  is  the  people’s  safeguard.  As  of  the  nation,  so  of 
the  single  citizen.  The  common  man  is  not  safe  unless  he 
can  at  will  become  a common  soldier.  Aristocracy  was 
born  of  the  naked  hands  of  poor  men  against  the  swords  of 
“gentlemen.”  After  a while,  the  degree  widened  between 
gentle  and  simple.  There  entered,  in  iron  armor,  and  with 
a long  lance,  a mounted  man — the  man  on  horseback— who 
was  more  than  a gentleman — he  was  a baron.  Then  came 
the  social  union  of  the  men  on  horseback,  and  the  election 
of  one  of  their  number  to  be  a king.  And  then  the  vast 
standing  armies  and  iron-clad  fleets,  the  Krupp  guns  and 
the  torpedoes — and  many  kings  were  swallowed  to  produce 
an  emperor. 

You  can  measure  the  liberties  of  a nation  by  the  readi- 
ness or  unreadiness  of  the  common  people  for  attack  or 
defense.  Aristocracies  are  always  free,  for  where  they 
exist  they  make  or  control  all  law.  The  independence  of 
the  common  man,  not  the  wealth,  culture,  or  freedom 
of  a superior  class,  is  the  test  and  the  proof  of  a country’s 
freedom. 

A recent  able  scientific  writer  has  shown  that  the  means 
of  aggression  placed  beyond  the  common  reach,  as  in  bri- 
gades of  cavalry,  parks  of  artillery,  war  fleets,  and  fortifi- 
cations, indicates  the  growth  of  government,  and  the 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AKD  SPEECHES. 


717 


decline  of  popular  liberties,  with  the  development  of  titles, 
privileges,  aristocracy,  and  royalty. 

The  hand  is  the  symbol  of  the  people  ; the  sword,  of  the 
lord  ; the  barracks,  of  the  king  ; and  the  iron-clad,  of  the 
emperor. 

If  there  were  any  higher  means  of  centralizing  force, 
there  would  be  a rank  still  higher  than  imperialism. 

But  when  the  tree  of  Force  has  reached  its  full  growth, 
it  must  flower,  and  fall  in  seed.  The  flower  of  force  is  the 
jeweled  crown  of  an  emperor,  and  the  seed  of  that  gaudy 
flower,  with  its  roots  in  the  toiling  hearts  of  the  millions, 
is  unrest,  disorder,  and  rebellion. 

The  American  view  of  war  and  of  the  soldier  is  the  view 
of  the  people,  not  of  the  lords  or  kings.  4 4 The  worse  the 
man  the  better  the  soldier,”  said  Napoleon.  The  meaning 
of  war  to  an  emperor  was  summed  up  in  this  one  word  : He 
didn’ t want  men  at  all ; he  would  have  preferred  demons , 
could  he  have  drilled  and  commanded  them. 

No  European  kings  or  emperors  or  nations  ever  went  to 
war  as  did  our  Northern  and  Southern  States.  No  vast 
armies  ever  before  faced  each  other  without  greed  of  domi- 
nation and  spoliation.  No  joy  for  the  complete  victory  was 
ever  so  shaded  with  sorrow  for  the  vanquished.  No  con- 
queror ever  turned  from  the  enemy’s  capital,  without  enter- 
ing in  proud  array  wdien  he  had  captured  it,  as  Grant  turned 
away  from  Richmond.  Grant  wasted  and  shattered  and 
humbled  Richmond  ; but  he  would  not  degrade  or  insult  it 
by  a triumphal  entry.  No  nation  ever  before  refused  to 
celebrate  the  memory  of  its  triumphs.  England  celebrates 
Waterloo  ; Germany  celebrates  Sedan  ; Russia  celebrates 
Plevna ; but,  except  in  silent  thanksgiving,  America  will 
never  celebrate  Gettysburg. 

The  brightest  glory  of  the  war  for  the  Union  was  the 
self -conquest  of  the  North  in  the  day  of  the  victory.  No 
voice  can  ever  praise  the  North’s  magnanimity  so  elo- 
quently as  the  free  speech  of  the  Chief  Secessionist  twenty 
years  after  the  war. 

No  nation  but  America  ever  honored  the  dead  of  the 


718 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 

enemy  in  common  with  their  own,  and  decorated  their 
graves  with  flowers.  The  better  the  man  the  better  the 
soldier  and  the  citizen,  is  the  American  meaning  of  war 
and  peace ; for  our  soldiers  only  stop  their  work  to  do 
their  fighting.  American  citizens  are  professional  free- 
men. 

“ To  a father  who  loves  his  children,  victory  has  no 
charms,”  said  a great  soldier,  speaking  like  a poet ; “ when 
the  heart  speaks,  glory  is  an  illusion.” 

But  while  the  two  flags  were  in  the  air — the  Stars  and 
Stripes  and  the  Stars  and  Bars — while  the  men  in  blue  and 
the  men  in  gray  faced  each  other,  never  was  fight  so  full  of 
hatred  and  death  since  Cain  slew  his  brother  with  a brand. 
Because  there  could  be  no  compromise.  It  was  death  or 
separation — and  separation  was  death. 

How  woefully  fitting  the  words  of  Shakespeare  : “ War 
’twixt  you  twain  would  be  as  if  the  world  should  cleave, 
and  that  slain  men  should  solder  up  the  rift.” 

Only  the  angels  of  God  could  steal  the  bitterness  from 
the  beaten,  proud  South.  Truly,  no  hands  but  the  hands 
of  slain  men  could  “ solder  up  the  rift.” 

Sorrow  usually  follows  Glory ; but  here  Sorrow  and 
Glory  went  hand  in  hand.  This  was  the  symbol  of  Grant’s 
turning  away  in  silence  when  prostrate  Richmond  opened 
her  gates.  This  was  the  gasp  from  the  heart  of  the  country 
when  the  Northern  veterans  first  laid  their  wreaths  on  the 
Confederate  graves. 

Sadly,  but  not  upbraiding, 

The  generous  deed  was  done. 

In  the  storm  of  the  years  that  are  fading 
No  braver  battle  was  won. 

Under  the  sod  and  the  dew, 

Waiting  the  judgment  day; 

Under  the  blossoms  the  blue, 

Under  the  garlands  the  gray. 

The  war  is  a volcano  in  the  night,  by  which  we  see 
deeper  meanings  than  its  own  flame.  When  its  reputations 
are  hung  like  banners  in  the  temples,  two  questions  will 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


719 


remain  of  higher  import  than  the  war  itself — namely  : its 
Cause  and  its  Consequence. 

The  four  years  of  the  war  are  not  United  States  his- 
tory,— they  are  a separate  epoch,  a gulf,  a sacrifice,  a con- 
flagration. Within  the  limits  of  these  four  tremendous 
years  common  men  became  giants  and  unexpected  celeb- 
rities blossomed  like  poppies  in  the  wheat  field.  Names 
became  famous  and  infamous  as  lastingly  as  Caesar  and 
Cataline.  But,  heroic  though  they  be,  the  stories  of  the 
war  are  only  the  photographs  of  a passion — the  drama  of  a 
paroxysm. 

“ State  Rights!”  as  the  cause,  repeated  the  tottering 
Chief  of  the  Confederacy  a few  weeks  ago  ; ‘ ‘ secession  from 
a compact  which  had  been  broken  by  one  of  the  parties  ! ” 

But  no  voice  of  to-day  can  deceive  the  student  of  to-mor- 
row ! Futurity  will  answer  as  we  answer  to-day  : Secession 
did  not  stand  alone — it  was  yoked  to  Slavery ; and  it  was 
the  South,  not  the  North,  that  broke  the  compact. 

Had  secession  been  a principle  it  would  not  have  sprung 
out  of  its  lair  like  a tiger ; it  would  have  come  to  light  in 
time  of  peace,  and  asked  for  fair  consideration.  It  was  not 
a principle — it  was  only  a resource  and  an  excuse.  There 
were  millions  of  men  in  the  South  who  never  demanded 
secession — to  whom  secession  meant  living  death.  The 
North  was  bound  to  those  men — it  would  be  an  atrocious 
and  endless  crime  to  abandon  them  to  their  “ masters.” 

Secession  as  the  will  of  a whole  mass  of  States,  and  of  all 
the  people  therein,  might  deserve  and  would  compel  argu- 
ment and  weighty  consideration  ; but  secession  demanded 
by  an  oligarchy  to  perpetuate  slavery  was  a crime  against 
God  and  man  and  the  nation. 

Four  years  before  the  first  shot  was  fired  on  Sumter — the 
meaning  and  purpose  of  the  war  were  foreshadowed  in  one 
memorable  sentence.  At  the  Whig  State  Convention  of 
Illinois,  in  1858,  one  of  the  speakers,  one  whose  face  was 
afterward  to  be  framed  in  the  shadow  of  the  war,  said  : “I 
oelieve  this  Government  cannot  endure  permanently  halt 
slave  and  half  free.” 


720 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


That  sentence  was  pregnant  with  the  war.  It  was  spoken 
by  him  who  has  been  described  as  ‘ c the  incarnation  of  the 
people  and  of  modern  democracy  ” — Abraham  Lincoln. 

Secession  to  escape  from  the  justice  of  God  and  the 
rights  of  man  never  was  a State  right.  There  would  have 
been  no  secession  and  no  war  had  there  been  no  slavery. 

After  the  first  blow  the  question  was  of  power  rather 
than  of  principle.  “The  law  is  silent  during  war,”  said  a 
great  Roman;  and  a greater  Englishman  advises:  “In 
peace,  there’s  nothing  so  becomes  a man  as  modest  stillness 
and  humility  ; but  when  the  blast  of  war  blows  in  our  ears, 
then  imitate  the  action  of  the  tiger.” 

What  wonder,  in  the  heat  of  the  great  fight,  if  the  cause 
of  conflict  became  obscured,  especially  to  the  men  in  the 
field.  They  had  no  time  to  regard  motives : 

Theirs  uot  to  make  reply, 

Theirs  not  to  question  why, 

Theirs  but  to  do  and  die. 

What  wonder  that  before  the  war  was  two  years  old 
men  had  lived  so  long  that  they  could  not  remember  the 
beginning.  Here  is  one  of  the  second  year’s  songs  of  the 
war,  written  by  a renowned  staff  officer : 

’Tis  now  too  late  to  question 
What  brought  the  war  about  ; 

’Tis  a thing  of  pride  and  passion, 

And  we  mean  to  fight  it  out. 

In  the  flush  of  perfect  triumph, 

And  the  gloom  of  utter  rout, 

We  have  sworn  on  many  a bloody  field — 

We  mean  to  fight  it  out  ! 

That  was  well— for  the  soldiers.  But  the  deep  justice 
of  the  Northern  cause  was  better.  There  was  one  mind 
always  firm  and  equable  through  the  turmoil.  Over  the 
din  of  arms  and  the  cries  of  conflict  rises  the  voice  of  Lin- 
coln standing  among  the  graves  of  Gettysburg,  in  the 
second  year  of  the  war,  when  the  invasion  of  the  North  had 
been  flung  back,  uttering  this  sublime  sentence:  “This 
nation,  under  God,  shall  have  a new  birth  of  freedom,  that 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES.  721 

government  of  the  people,  by  the  people,  for  the  people, 
shall  not  perish  from  the  earth.” 

Compare  this  word,  from  the  vortex  of  the  Rebellion, 
with  the  best  word  from  the  Confederacy,  even  after  twenty 
years  for  the  growth  of  magnanimity. 

Says  the  Chief  Confederate  in  1886:  “The  general 
government  had  no  constitutional  power  to  coerce  a State, 
and  a State  had  the  right  to  repel  invasion.  It  was  a 
national  and  constitutional  right.” 

When  men  talk  so  much  about  rights  they  must  be  will- 
ing to  go  to  the  foundation.  The  bottom  right  is  the  right 
of  a man,  not  of  a State.  If  the  general  government  had 
no  right  to  oppress  States,  States  had  no  right  to  oppress 
men. 

The  right  to  stamp  out  the  coercion  of  innocent  men 
needed  neither  national  nor  constitutional  approval ; it  was 
based  on  eternal  principles  of  right  and  justice. 

The  war  for  the  Union  proved  more  than  the  military 
prowess  of  the  North.  It  proved  that  the  Northern  system 
of  democracy  was  better  than  the  Southern  system. 

All  the  republics  in  the  world’s  history  have  failed  but 
one ; and  that  one  is  not  the  United  States,  but  New 
England. 

The  republicanism  of  the  South  failed,  for  it  blossomed 
into  slavery  and  aristocracy  that  strengthened  with  years. 

The  republicanism  of  New  England  succeeded,  for  it 
purged  itself  of  slavery  over  a century  ago,  and  year  by 
year  has  extended  the  rights  of  suffrage  and  citizenship 
and  removed  the  barriers  of  class  and  privilege  until  our 
Northern  State  governments,  with  one  shameful  exception, 
are,  in  the  words  of  the  first  Constitution  of  Massachusetts : 
“A  social  compact  by  which  the  whole  people  covenants 
with  each  citizen  and  each  citizen  with  the  whole  people 
that  all  shall  be  governed  by  certain  laws  for  the  common 
good.” 

Take  Maryland  and  Massachusetts  as  examples  of 
Southern  and  Northern  democracy. 

They  started  about  the  same  time  in  the  New  World. 


722 


JOHN  BOYLE  o’KEILLY. 


The  Southern  settlement  had  the  advantage  in  all  material 
ways.  The  Maryland  settlers  were  of  a higher  social  class 
than  the  Puritans.  They  left  England  under  fairer  auspi- 
ces. They  chose  for  their  new  home  one  of  the  most  fertile 
and  beautiful  countries  on  this  continent.  They  were 
mainly  Catholics,  and  they  established  freedom  of  religion 
in  their  colony ; they  invited  to  join  them  all  good  men 
without  question  of  creed. 

The  Puritan  Pilgrims  came  to  Plymouth  under  quite 
adverse  circumstances.  They  were  a small  body  of  men 
who  had  fled  4 from  England  to  Holland  in  1610,  to  escape 
from  Protestant  religious  persecution.  They  lived  ten 
years  in  Holland,  and  then  resolved  to  emigrate  to  America, 
and  settle  on  the  banks  of  the  Hudson  River.  They  em- 
barked in  their  little  ships — the  Speedwell  and  the  May- 
flower— one  as  large  as  a Gloucester  fishing  boat,  and  the 
other  about  the  size  of  our  common  coasting  schooners. 
The  Speedwell  broke  down,  and  the  whole  company — about 
120  persons — got  aboard  the  Mayflower , and  sailed  from 
the  English  town  of  Plymouth  on  the  6th  of  September, 
1620.  After  two  months  of  a voyage,  they  arrived  at  Cape 
Cod,  and  thence  took  bearings  for  the  Hudson.  But  they 
were  driven  back  to  the  Cape — it  was  said  by  the  treachery 
of  the  captain — and  they  resolved  to  settle  there. 

On  the  9th  of  November,  1620,  the  men  of  the  party,  41 
in  number,  signed  an  agreement  to  obey  such  laws  “as 
shall  be  thought  most  meet  and  convenient  for  the  general 
good  of  the  colony.”  That  first  gathering  of  the  whole 
community  at  Plymouth  Rock,  houseless  on  the  verge  of  a 
strange  continent,  with  their  little  ship  tossing  near  the 
inhospitable  shore,  was  the  first  town  meeting  of  Massa- 
chusetts, and  the  town  meeting  was  the  secret  of  New 
England’s  success — and  is  the  seed  of  republican  liberty 
forever. 

The  circumstances  of  the  Plymouth  settlement  were 
unfavorable  in  all  respects.  The  climate  was  harsh,  the 
winter  long,  the  soil  unprofitable,  the  settlers  few  in  num- 
ber and  poor  in  all  means  requisite  to  make  successful  such 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AHD  SPEECHES. 


723 


a fight  with  nature.  In  religion  they  were  tremendously 
earnest,  austere,  and  illiberal.  They  had  fled  from  perse- 
cution and  they  claimed  the  right  to  persecute.  Their 
creed  and  discipline  were  gloomy  and  rigorous  and  un- 
lovely. They  were  full  of  sincere  faith  ; to  their  souls 
“the  wrath  of  God”  was  as  visible  as  the  storm-cloud  to 
their  eyes.  In  1648  they  agreed  on  a “ Platform  of  Church 
Discipline,”  in  which  the  leading  feature  was  the  power  of 
the  churches  to  accuse,  censure,  and  excommunicate  offend- 
ing or  unbending  members.  Little  patience  and  forgive- 
ness were  shown  the  delinquents.  It  is  provided  by  chapter 
xiv.  of  this  agreement  that  public  offenders  “ shall  be  cast 
out  at  once,”  and  a rigorous  exclusion  practiced.  Art.  IV. 
says:  “When  an  offender  is  cast  out  of  the  Church,  the 
faithful  are  to  refrain  from  all  spiritual  and  civil  com- 
munion with  him.”  In  fact,  they  were  to  be  boycotted  in 
the  most  approved  modern  fashion. 

By  the  “Laws  and  Ordinances  of  New  England,  to  the 
year  1700,”  this  was  enacted  : 

“ Whoever  professing  the  Christian  religion  and  being 
sixteen,  denies  any  book  of  the  Bible  to  be  the  Word  of 
God,  is  to  be  imprisoned  till  the  meeting  of  the  County 
Court,  and  fined  or  punished  as  the  Court  thinks  fit.” 

“If  he  offend  afterwards,  he  is  to  die  or  be  ban- 
ished.” 

“ Whoever  knowingly  brings  a Quaker  or  heretic  is 
imprisoned  until  he  pays  or  gives  security  for  £100,  and 
carries  him  away  again.” 

Quakers  were  whipped  through  three  towns  and  con- 
veyed out  of  the  colony.  ‘ ‘ If  they  return,  after  three 
times,  they  are  to  be  branded  with  the  letter  R on  the  left 
shoulder  and  whipped  as  before  ; if  they  return  after  this, 
to  be  banished  on  pain  of  death.”  No  Catholic  priest  was 
permitted  to  live  in  the  colony.  “Whoever  can’t  clear 
himself  from  suspicion,  to  be  banished,  not  to  return  on 
pain  of  death,  unless  by  shipwreck,  or  in  company  with  any 
upon  business,  with  whom  they  are  to  return.”  “ What- 
ever priest  residing  in  New  England  did  not  depart  before 


724 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


November,  1700,  he  was  to  be  imprisoned  for  life,  ahd  to 
die  if  he  broke  prison.” 

The  whole  religions  code  was  of  this  drastic  nature. 
There  never  was  a community  bound  by  more  dreadful 
lines. 

And  yet,  with  all  its  advantages,  the  republicanism  of 
Maryland  failed  ; and  with  all  its  drawbacks,  the  republi- 
canism of  Massachusetts  succeeded. 

What  was  the  reason  ? 

Because  the  Southern  settlers  were  liberal  in  religious 
freedom  and  illiberal  in  social  order  ; while  the  Puritans 
were  unfree  religiously,  but  thoroughly  equal  in  social  and 
civil  rights. 

There  was  a seed  for  the  future  sown  in  Massachu- 
setts 250  years  ago  that  was  not  sown  in  the  South. 

In  the  seventeenth  century  the  Southern  element  was 
liberal  and  free  ; in  the  nineteenth  century  it  was  slave- 
holding and  defending  slavery.  In  the  seventeenth  cen- 
tury the  Puritan  was  illiberal,  unfree,  a slave  to  his  own 
intolerance  ; but  in  the  nineteenth  century  he  was  a sol- 
dier of  freedom,  and  he  unlocked  the  shackles  of  every 
slave  in  the  South. 

The  Southerners  were  religious  commoners  and  social 
aristocrats.  The  first  century  of  their  history  saw  them 
classify  permanently  as  patrician,  overseer,  trader,  and 
slave.  They  apostrophized  democracy  in  meeting,  and 
went  home  to  flog  their  bondsmen.  They  were  renowned 
for  courtesy,  they  were  hospitable  and  refined  and 
proud. 

But  their  Democracy  was  confined  to  a class,  like  the 
illusory  republicanism  of  Rome  and  Venice.  Their  social 
system  of  caste  was  harder  and  more  detestable  than  the 
Blue  Laws  of  the  Puritans.  The  one  was  based  on  pride 
and  possession,  and  the  other,  gloomy  as  it  was,  on  pro- 
found sincerity  and  faith.  However  fiercely  the  Puritan 
barred  out  those  who  did  not  believe  with  him,  he  made 
those  free  and  equal  who  belonged  to  his  own  community. 
He  had  discovered  the  very  secret  of  civil  freedom  that  the 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


725 


world  had  sought  for  thousands  of  years — and  it  was  the 
town  meeting — a common  source  for  all  law  and  order  and 
representation — a primary  convention  where  every  man  in 
the  community  met  on  exactly  equal  conditions. 

In  the  South,  the  primary  meeting  of  the  people  was 
that  of  the  county,  not  the  town  ; and  the  counties  were  so 
large  that  the  people  could  not  attend.  They  had  to  send 
delegates  to  the  starting-place.  The  well-spring  of  their 
legislation  was  filled  with  second-hand  water. 

The  New  England  town  was  so  small  that  all  could 
attend  the  primary  meeting.  Its  first  issue  was  from  the 
very  people. 

The  necessity  of  the  Southern  method  was  the  profes- 
sional delegate,  who  was  the  father  of  the  professional 
politician.  He  was  the  curse  of  the  South  a hundred 
years  ago,  and  he  is  to-day  ; and  he  will  become  the  curse 
of  the  North  if  good  citizens  give  up  attendance  at  the 
town  meetings.  And  Massachusetts  is  threatened  with 
even  a greater  danger  than  this, — namely,  that  the  town 
meeting  shall  be  overruled  by  the  State — that  the  sons  of 
those  who  framed  the  Ark  of  the  Covenant  shall  in  our  day 
shatter  the  fathers’  work. 

By  these  different  methods,  the  South  sank  deeper  and 
deeper  into  aristocracy  and  slavery,  and  the  North  rose 
higher  and  higher  in  recognition  of  civil,  social,  and  relig- 
ious rights. 

The  Puritan  got  rid  of  slavery  in  his  first  century ; 
every  generation  grew  more  liberal  and  more  powerful, 
because  the  whole  people  were  advancing  like  an  army. 
He  abolished  his  Blue  Laws  ; he  let  Quakers  and  Catholics 
come  and  live  in  peace. 

The  Southern  patrician,  magnificently  spending  his 
slave-earned  money,  despised  trade  and  disrespected  labor. 
The  Yankee  manufacturer  and  trader,  spending  the  money 
his  own  hands  and  brains  had  earned,  respected  himself  and 
all  self-dependent  and  industrious  men.  Unlovely  as  was 
the  aspect  of  Puritanism,  it  was  beautiful  in  its  firm  and 
unquestioning  Christian  faith  ; and  it  must  have  been  for 


726  JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 

this  that  God  rewarded  the  Puritan  with  a gift  of  such 
priceless  value : 

God  said  : I am  tired  of  Kings, 

I suffer  them  no  more ; 

Up  to  my  ear  the  morning  brings 
The  outrage  of  the  poor. 

I will  divide  my  goods ; 

Call  in  the  wretch  and  slave  ; 

None  shall  rule  but  the  humble, 

And  none  but  Toil  shall  have. 

I will  have  never  a noble, 

No  lineage  counted  great. 

Fishers  and  choppers  and  woodmen 
Shall  constitute  a State. 

On  these  main  lines  the  two  civilizations  were  extended. 
They  were  never  parallel — never  could  be.  They  must  in- 
evitably meet  and  cross  some  time  ; and  the  crossing  came 
in  1861. 

The  Rebellion  was  no  accident.  It  was  not  unneces- 
sary. It  could  not  be  avoided.  It  had  to  be.  It  was  the 
seventeenth  century  fighting  the  nineteenth.  It  was  the 
issue  of  250  years  of  growth. 

And  again,  it  was  the  mixing  of  the  elements  that  go  to 
produce  the  perfected  American.  Cavalier  and  Puritan 
would  never  have  drawn  together  of  themselves.  God 
dashed  them  together  till  their  blood  mixed  in  the  flow  if 
not  in  the  circulation. 

Marvelous  alchemy  of  Providence ! Wiser  and  better 
than  all  intellectual  effort  or  foresight ! Down  there  to 
the  proud  autocrat  of  the  plantations  went  the  trading 
Yankee  with  the  rights  of  man  shining  on  his  bayonet 
points  ; and  he  smashed  the  barriers  of  caste  and  destroyed 
the  palaces  that  were  built  on  the  necks  cf  men.  And 
here  to  the  land  of  the  Puritan  Pilgrims  follows  the  im- 
pulsive and  imaginative  Catholic  Irishman,  raising  the 
cross  on  his  beautiful  church  side  by  side  with  the  severe 
gable  of  the  meeting  house.  Down  there  the  cavalier  has 
learned  that  it  was  wicked  and  lawless  to  enslave  men  : up 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


727 


here  the  modern  Puritan  knows  that  it  was  criminal  and 
cruel  to  whip  Quakers  and  Catholics. 

So  in  the  mysterious  alembic  of  God  are  the  blood- 
streams mingled  and  unified.  Out  of  this  transfusion  and 
amalgam  of  the  strongest  men  on  the  earth  is  to  come  the 
future  American — the  man  fit  to  own  a continent. 

The  war  marks  the  maturity  of  the  Republic.  Before 
1862  the  American  youth  had  to  look  abroad  for  great 
ideals — for  memorable  battles,  for  illustrious  commanders, 
heroic  stories  of  patriotism,  strife,  and  sacrifice. 

But  the  four  vast  years  of  the  war  threw  into  shadow 
all  foreign  representatives  of  patriotism. 

Henceforth,  the  American  kept  his  attention  at  home ; 
the  dignity  of  sorrow,  power,  and  responsibility  were  Ameri- 
can. Henceforth  only  the  weak  and  the  vapid  American 
sought  models  in  other  countries.  These  words  of  Emer- 
son began  to  be  appreciated : 

“They  who  made  England,  Italy,  or  Greece  venerable 
in  the  imagination  did  so  by  sticking  fast  where  they  were, 
like  an  axis  of  the  earth.  The  soul  is  no  traveler  ; the  wise 
man  stays  at  home,  and  when  his  necessities,  his  duties,  or 
any  occasion  calls  him  from  his  home  into  foreign  lands, 
he  is  still  at  home,  and  shall  make  men  sensible  by  the 
expression  of  his  countenance  that  he  goes  the  missionary 
of  wisdom,  of  virtue,  and  visits  cities  like  a sovereign,  and 
not  like  an  interloper  or  a valet.” 

Foremost  among  the  teachers  of  true  Americanism  were 
the  veterans  of  the  war,  both  North  and  South. 

The  vast  armies  disbanded  and  came  back  to  the  works 
of  peace.  In  any  other  country  the  victors  would  have 
had  to  keep  a million  men  in  arms  for  self -protection  ; and 
rapine  and  disorder  would  follow  such  a disbandment. 
But  here  the  words  of  the  great  American  poet  were  true : 

Over  the  Carnage  rose  prophetic  a Voice, 

Be  not  disheartened,  affection  shall  solve  the  problems  of  free- 
dom yet : 

They  who  love  each  other  shall  become  invincible, 

They  shall  yet  make  Columbia  victorious, 


728 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


One  from  Massachusetts  shall  be  a Missourian’s  comrade, 

From  Maine  and  from  hot  Carolina,  and  another,  an  Ore- 
gonese,  shall  be  friends  together — 

More  precious  to  each  other  than  all  the  riches  of  the  earth — 

To  Michigan,  Florida  perfumes  shall  tenderly  come— 

Not  the  perfumes  of  flowers,  but  sweeter,  and  wafted  beyond 
death. 

The  battle  flags  of  all  nations  are  dear  to  the  people  ; 
for  even  though  the  cause  in  which  they  were  carried  may 
have  been  unjust,  the  flags  are  steeped  in  the  blood  of  the 
nation. 

How  doubly  dear  the  battle  flags  of  America,  from  whose 
folds  our  great  son  of  Massachusetts  struck  the  names  of 
victories  that  kept  the  wounds  open. 

But  the  veteran  of  the  war  is  dearer  and  nearer  even 
than  the  flag.  He  is  a living  flag,  starred  and  scarred.  In 
the  wild  days,  he  “kept  step  to  the  music  of  the  Union.” 
His  bronze  medal,  or  his  empty  sleeve  thrills  us  with  pride 
and  affection.  On  this  annual  celebration,  the  veterans 
awaken  the  deepest  feelings  of  patriotism.  We  see  their 
lessening  ranks  year  by  year,  and  say  with  the  poet : 

O blessed  are  ye,  our  brothers, 

Who  feel  in  your  souls  alway 
The  thrill  of  the  stirring  summons 
You  heard  but  to  obey  ; 

Who,  whether  the  years  go  swift, 

Or  whether  the  years  go  slow, 

Will  wear  in  your  hearts  forever 
The  glory  of  long  ago  ! 

We  hear  the  voice  of  economy  raised  against  the  pen- 
sions paid  by  the  nation  to  its  veteran  volunteer  soldiers. 
It  argues  that  the  soldier  in  war-time  simply  made  a con- 
tract with  the  government,  and  that  the  terms  of  the  con- 
tract were  fulfilled  by  his  daily  food  and  payment  in  the 
field. 

Shame  on  the  tongue  that  says  it!  Cato,  the  censor, 
earned  the  detestation  of  centuries  because  he  advised  the 
Romans  to  sell  their  old  and  worn-out  slaves  to  save  ex- 
pense. “ Feed  no  useless  servants  in  the  house,”  said  Cato ; 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


729 


and  so  say  our  petty  censors,  who  would  sell  the  worn-out 
soldiers  of  the  Union  to  save  a million  a year  to  the  treas- 
ury which  they  preserved  for  this  and  future  generations. 

Nobler  nations  rewarded  not  only  their  heroes,  but  the 
very  dumb  beasts  that  worked  for  the  national  glory. 
The  Athenians,  says  Plutarch,  when  they  built  the  Parthe- 
non, turned  those  mules  loose  to  feed  freely  that  had  been 
observed  to  do  the  hardest  labor.  And  one  of  these  free 
mules,  it  was  said,  came  of  itself  to  offer  its  service,  and  ran 
along  with  and  ahead  of  the  teams  that  drew  the  wagons 
to  the  Acropolis,  as  if  it  would  invite  them  to  draw  more 
stoutly  ; upon  which  there  passed  a vote  of  the  Athenian 
people  that  the  creature  should  be  kept  at  the  public 
charge,  even  till  it  died.  “Nor  are  we,”  says  Plutarch, 
“ to  use  living  creatures  like  old  shoes  or  dishes,  and  throw 
them  away  when  they  are  worn  out  or  broken  with  ser- 
vice.” 

The  contract  of  enlistment  was,  doubtless,  kept  by  the 
government ; but  no  man  makes  a contract  for  his  blood 
and  life.  The  soldier  made  his  contract  for  that  which 
government  could  give  him — his  clothing — his  food — his 
transportation  ; for  which  he  offered  his  obedient  service. 
But  all  beyond  that  was  beyond  contract.  The  volunteers 
did  not  contract  for  their  blood  ; they  offered  it.  They 
did  not  contract  for  the  terror,  the  grief,  the  loss  endured 
by  their  wives,  mothers,  and  families  : these  were  beyond 
the  purchase  of  a national  treasury.  The  men  whose 
graves  were  decorated  to-day  did  not  contract  for  their 
lives — they  gave  them  to  the  United  States — they  gave 
them  for  the  destruction  of  slavery — and  the  selfsame  offer- 
ing was  made  by  those  who  carried  the  flowers  to  their 
graves. 

Our  schools  are  closed  to-day  ; but  we  have  turned  the 
nation  into  a school,  and  these  are  our  teachers — these 
flowers,  these  veterans,  these  graves,  these  examples.  The 
American  boy  and  girl  learn  their  noblest  lesson  on  Deco- 
ration Day.  There  is  no  eloquence  like  that  of  death. 
There  is  no  reconciliation  like  that  of  the  grave.  There  is 


730 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


no  reward  higher  than  love.  There  is  no  crown  so  precious 
as  a wreath  of  flowers.  Common  rewards  may  be  of  gold 
or  jewels.  But  the  highest  prizes,  like  the  highest  ser- 
vices, cannot  be  measured ; we  can  only  express  them  in 
symbols.  To  the  victor  in  the  Olympian  games,  who  was 
to  be  honored  for  life,  the  only  award  was  a little  crown  of 
olive  and  parsley.  Values  are  obliterated  or  reversed 
when  heroes  are  to  be  honored  ; and  the  veteran  of  the 
Union  Army  is  given  a bronze  cross,  cut  from  his  own 
guns,  as  the  supremest  sign  of  his  country’s  affection. 

All  men  who  fought  in  the  war  for  the  Union  ought  to 
be  pensioned  for  life.  The  Republic  owes  to  them  this 
reward.  We  are  free  with  our  honors  for  the  great  cap- 
tains ; but  the  common  soldier  has  an  equal,  and  even  a 
higher  claim.  When  the  Greek  commander,  Miltiades, 
returned  from  victory,  and  asked  for  a special  crown,  a 
man  cried  out  from  the  assembly:  “When  you  conquer 
alone , Miltiades,  you  shall  be  crowned  alone!”  and  the 
people  approved  the  speech. 

For  the  self-respect  of  the  generation  that  witnessed 
the  war  ; for  the  perpetuation  of  high  principles  of  patriot- 
ism among  the  people  ; for  the  education  of  the  young  ; 
for  the  honor  of  America,  and  the  glory  of  humanity,  we 
are  bound  to  honor  and  cherish  the  declining  years  of  the 
brave  men  who  offered  their  lives  to  keep  the  Republic 
united. 


A PATKIOTS  MONUMENT. 


SENTENCED  “ TO  BE  HANGED,  DRAWN,  AND  QUARTERED.” 


The  following  address  was  delivered  by  Mr.  John  Boyle  O’Reilly  on 
Monday,  Nov.  23, 1885,  when  a monument  was  uncovered  in  Mount  Hope 
Cemetery,  Boston,  over  the  grave  of  John  Edward  Kelly,  an  Irish  patriot 
who  took  part  in  the  fight  at  Kilclooney  Wood  in  1867,  and  was 
sentenced  to  be  “ hanged,  drawn,  and  quartered.”  The  monument  was 
in  the  shape  of  an  Irish  round  tower,  and  the  following  was  its 
inscription  : 


JOHN  EDWARD  KELLY, 
an  Irish  Patriot  and  Exile, 
born  in  Kinsale,  Ii-eland,  1849. 

Died,  in  Boston,  January,  1884. 

He  was  engaged  in  the  attempted 
Irish  Revolution  of  1867, 
was  captured  arms  in  hand 
at  Kilclooney  Wood,  was  tried 
by  English  law  for  high  treason, 
and  was  sentenced  to  be 
“Hanged,  Drawn,  and  Quartered.” 

Was  transported  with  62  other  Irish  patriots 
to  West  Australia  Penal  Colony,  1867. 

Was  released  from  prison  1871. 

By  religion  a Protestant, 
by  nature  a brave  man, 
by  birth  and  principle 
a soldier  of  liberty. 

GOD  SAVE  IRELAND! 


E have  come  together  to-day  for  the  purpose  of 


honoring  the  memory  of  a man  who  was  found  true 
in  a day  of  supreme  trial. 

“ Whoever  presents  a great  example  is  great,”  says  the 
poet.  The  man  who  sleeps  under  this  monument  gave  an 
example  of  the  virtues  of  courage,  fidelity,  and  sacrifice. 

The  vitality  of  men  and  nations  may  be  measured  by 
their  devotion  to  exalted  and  unchangeable  principles. 
Secondary  or  inferior  natures  pride  themselves  on  selfish 
and  material  qualities,  on  their  organizing  capacity  for 
securing  wealth,  luxury,  and  domination.  They  are  intel- 


'Sacred  to  the  Memory 
of 


731 


732 


JOHN  BOYLE  o’EEILLY. 


lectual  machines,  potent  as  a wedge  or  an  engine,  or  the 
explosion  of  a bomb, — and  as  limited,  unsympathetic,  and 
uninfluential. 

“ Among  eminent  persons,”  says  Emerson,  “ those  who 
are  most  dear  to  men  are  not  of  the  class  which  the  econo- 
mist calls  producers  ; they  have  nothing  in  their  hands  ; 
they  have  not  cultivated  corn  nor  made  bread  ; they  have 
not  led  out  a colony  nor  invented  a loom.” 

Superior  races  are  spiritual  forces,  followers  of  eternal 
principles,  seers  of  equity,  prophets  of  fairer  relations 
between  men,  valuing  justice  more  than  success,  loving 
freedom  so  dearly  for  themselves  that  they  could  not 
oppress  another  people,  venerating  all  sacred  and  holy 
things. 

In  the  name  of  liberty  not  only  crimes  have  been  com- 
mitted, but  principles  more  vicious  than  any  crime,  being  the 
crystallization  of  a thousand  evils,  have  been  enunciated. 

Both  civilization  and  liberty  have  been  misrepresented, 
even  by  well-meaning  reformers.  Neither  civilization  nor 
liberty  can  be  suddenly  donned  like  a new  garment,  or 
immediately  constructed  like  a necessary  piece  of  manufac- 
ture. Unless  they  are  based  on  the  moral  perceptions  and 
convictions  of  the  people,  they  are  based  on  quicksands, 
and  are  only  new  and  more  hopeless  kinds  of  savagery, 
for  they  are  the  savagery  of  shrewdness  instead  of  bold- 
ness. 

“The  tree  of  liberty,”  shouted  Barrere,  of  the  Beign 
of  Terror,  “only  grows  when  watered  by  the  blood  of 
tyrants ! ” 

Here  was  the  cry  of  a shallow  soul,  drunk  with  license, 
uttering  a word  without  weight. 

The  blood  of  tyrants  is  infertile,  lethal,  poisonous  to 
the  tree  of  liberty  or  any  other  tree  of  life.  The  carcasses  of 
all  the  tyrants  on  earth  might  be  emptied  on  the  roots  of 
the  tree  of  liberty  and  it  would  die  of  drought. 

The  tree  of  liberty  will  never  enfoliate  and  bear  fruit 
unless  it  be  watered  from  the  well  of  justice,  independence, 
and  fair  play  in  the  hearts  of  the  people. 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES.  733 

Not  by  the  blood  of  tyrants,  but  by  the  blood  of  good 
men  is  the  tree  of  liberty  kept  alive  and  flourishing. 

When  the  people  are  truly  worthy  of  freedom,  when 
they  have  substantiated  their  own  right  and  dignity  as 
possessors  of  the  earth,  they  will  not  kill  tyrants  with  steel 
or  lead,  but  with  aversion,  indignation,  and  contempt. 
Tyrants  are  part  of  the  people  themselves — the  diseased 
part,  and  this  disease  is  not  local,  to  be  cured  with  a knife, 
but  constitutional,  and  only  to  be  reached  by  the  medicine 
of  equity,  morality,  and  self-respect. 

The  highest  duty  that  ever  comes  to  a man  is  not  to  do 
a deed  of  prowess  or  win  a material  victory,  but  to  endure, 
suffer,  and  die  for  truth  or  freedom.  The  highest  honor 
that  a man  can  bear  in  life  or  death  is  the  scar  of  a chain 
borne  in  a good  cause. 

“ They  have  taken  with  them  to  the  grave,”  says  Ruskin 
of  the  old  cathedral  builders,  “ their  powers,  their  honors, 
and  their  errors,  but  they  have  left  us  their  adoration  ! ” 

Standing  here  by  the  grave  of  a man  who  lived  and  died 
humbly,  modestly,  and  poorly,  we  look  not  for  powers  or 
achievements,  we  are  not  deceived  by  lowliness,  by  poverty, 
nor  even  by  errors  ; we  And  that,  after  the  sifting  of  death 
and  years,  there  remains  to  us  his  adoration,  courage,  and 
devotion.  To  these  we  have  raised  this  stone,  to  honor 
their  memory  in  a dead  man,  and  to  remind  living  men 
that  love  and  gratitude  are  the  sure  harvest  of  fidelity  and 
trustworthiness. 

Eighteen  years'  ago,  the  moldering  form  under  this 
tomb  went  out  and  faced  the  bayonets  of  the  oppressor  of 
his  country  in  a fight  of  overwhelming  odds.  No  matter 
now  about  the  wisdom  or  the  calculation  of  chances  for 
success.  The  motive  beneath  the  act  was  golden,  and  the 
few  men  who  went  into  open  rebellion  at  Kilclooney  Wood 
in  1867  were  heroes  as  true  in  defeat  as  the  world  would 
have  hailed  them  in  success.  Side  by  side  with  Dr  Peter 
O’Neill  Crowley,  who  was  shot  dead  by  an  English  bullet, 
J ohn  Edward  Kelly,  a youth  of  nineteen,  was  overpowered, 
rifle  in  hand,  and  was  flung  into  prison. 


734 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


A few  months  later  he  was  put  on  trial  before  an  Eng* 
lish  judge,  dealing  out  English  law  against  a helpless  enemy 
of  England,  who  passed  upon  him  the  abominable  sentence 
that  we  have  carved  upon  this  granite  block,  in  order  that 
the  people  of  a free  land  may  read  in  passing,  and  reflect 
on  the  meanings  of  such  words  as  Royalty,  Invasion,  Op- 
pression, Law,  Justice,  and  Rebellion. 

Here,  to-day,  with  the  shadow  of  a patriot-burdened 
English  gallows  flung  across  our  borders  from  Canada,  this 
horrible  sentence,  passed  on  a good  man  for  daring  to  de- 
fend his  own  from  an  invader  and  robber,  has  strange  sig- 
nificance. With  the  strangled  breath  of  the  brave  Louis 
Riel,  the  justice-loving  French  Canadian,  moaning  in  our 
ears,  and  in  this  city  of  Boston  where  the  same  insolent 
oppressors  stabled  their  horses  in  the  house  of  God  to  show 
how  they  despised  the  patriotism  and  religious  feelings  of 
“ rebels,”  it  is  fitting  that  this  stone  should  be  erected  to  a 
dead  rebel,  and  that  carved  upon  it  should  stand  forever 
those  accursed  words  that  pollute  the  very  air  of  America. 

What  was  meant  by  this  sentence,  passed  on  a political 
prisoner  less  than  twenty  years  ago — ‘ 4 To  be  hanged,  drawn, 
and  quartered  ?” 

It  meant  that  the  manacled  man  was  to  be  hanged  by 
the  neck  for  a certain  period  of  time,  but  not  killed  ; that 
before  life  or  consciousness  had  fled  he  was  to  be  cut  down, 
his  body  torn  open,  and  his  heart  drawn  smoking  from 
his  breast  and  cast  upon  the  gallows  ; and  then,  his  head 
having  been  cut  off  and  held  up  by  the  hangman  to  the 
view  of  the  people,  his  body  was  to  be  divided  into  four 
quarters.  By  this  means  the  government  of  England  could 
strike  terror  into  six  cities  or  towns  by  exhibiting  in  so 
many  places  a portion  of  the  mutilated  remains. 

Looked  at  from  a superior  height,  what  are  the  true  re- 
lations of  an  English  judge  avIio  passes  this  atrocious  sen- 
tence on  an  Irish,  Canadian  or  East  Indian  patriot  % Be- 
fore God,  on  that  bench,  clad  in  ermine  and  surrounded 
with  power,  sits  the  criminal ; and  in  that  dock,  manacled, 
gagged,  and  bleeding,  stands  the  accuser  and  the  judge. 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


735 


“Let  judges  and  criminals  be  transposed,”  says  the 
greatest  of  American  poets  ; “let  the  prison-keepers  be  put 
in  prison — let  those  that  were  prisoners  take  the  keys.” 

For  the  day  of  his  rebellion,  for  the  day  of  his  trial,  for 
the  hour  of  his  sentence,  and  for  the  long  years  of  his  im- 
prisonment this  monument  is  raised  over  the  grave  of  Ed- 
ward Kelly.  It  is  not  unfitting  that  it  should  stand  among 
the  graves  of  Boston. 

In  his  short  life  this  man  illustrated  many  phases  of  the 
Irish  question.  He  left  Ireland  in  his  childhood,  but  the 
patriotic  fire  burned  as  strongly  in  exile  as  if  he  had  grown 
to  manhood  on  his  native  soil.  He  was  a Protestant  in 
religion  ; but  he  was  as  true  to  Ireland  as  his  fellow- Prot- 
estants Robert  Emmet,  Wolfe  Tone,  Lord  Edward  Fitz- 
gerald, John  Mitchel,  Smith  O’Brien,  John  Martin,  Charles 
Stewart  Parnell,  and  the  tens  of  thousands  of  living  Irish 
Protestants  who  are  Irish  patriots. 

This  day  has  been  selected  for  this  ceremony  because  of 
its  thrilling  associations  for  Irishmen.  On  this  day,  twenty 
years  ago,  the  English  court  was  opened  in  Dublin  to  give 
a mock  trial  to  the  patriots  and  “rebels,”  John  O’Leary 
and  Thomas  Clarke  Luby — high-minded,  cultured  Irish 
gentlemen,  who  were  adjudged  guilty  of  “high  trea- 
son,” and  sentenced  to  twenty  years  imprisonment  among 
English  criminals. 

Never  truer  men  than  these  stood  in  the  dock  for  lib- 
erty ; and  never  nobler  word  was  spoken  than  the  scathing 
answer  of  John  O’Leary  to  the  renegade  judge  on  the  bench, 
who  soon  after  ended  his  execrated  life  with  his  own  hand. 

“I  have  been  found  guilty  of  treason,”  said  John 
O’Leary.  “ Treason  is  a foul  crime.  Dante  places  traitors 
in  the  ninth  circle  of  his  hell — I believe  the  lowest  circle. 
But  what  kind  of  traitors  are  these  \ Traitors  against  kin, 
country,  friends,  and  benefactors.  England  is  not  my  coun- 
try ; and  I betrayed  no  friend  or  benefactor.  Sidney  was 
a legal  traitor,  a traitor  according  to  the  law,  and  so  was 
Emmet;  and  their  judges,  Jeffreys  and  Norbury,  were 
loyal  men.  I leave  the  matter  there  ! ” 


736 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


Eighteen  years  ago,  on  this  day,  three  young  Irishmen 
were  murdered  on  an  English  gallows  in  the  city  of  Man- 
chester. Their  names  are  honored  and  their  death  is  rev- 
erently commemorated  in  many  countries  to-day.  This 
monument  is  consecrated  by  association  with  their  memory. 

On  September  18,  1867,  two  Irish  patriots  were  locked 
up  in  a police  van,  in  the  city  of  Manchester,  to  be  driven 
from  their  prison  to  the  court.  The  van  was  guarded  by  a 
watchful  escort  and,  to  make  security  doubly  sure,  a 
policeman  was  locked  inside  with  the  prisoners.  On  its 
way  through  the  crowded  city,  the  van  was  attacked  by  a 
small  body  of  brave  men,  armed  with  revolvers,  and  led  by 
a young  man  named  William  Allen.  The  names  of  the 
others  were  Larkin,  O'Brien,  Maguire,  and  O' Meagher 
Condon.  The  driver  of*  the  van  tried  to  dash  through  the 
little  band,  but  they  shot  the  horses,  seized  the  driver, 
scattered  the  escort,  burst  open  the  door  with  a revolver- 
bullet,  and  rescued  the  prisoners,  who  eventually  escaped 
to  this  country. 

But  the  shot  that  William  Allen  fired  to  break  the  lock 
had  killed  the  constable,  Brett,  who  was  confined  with  the 
prisoners.  Before  firing,  Allen  had  shouted  to  those  inside 
to  stand  clear  of  the  danger.  He  knew  that  he  was  as 
likely  to  kill  a friend  as  an  enemy.  One  of  the  escort,  a 
constable  named  Shaw,  swore  on  the  trial  of  Allen  that 
he  stood  nearest  to  him  when  he  fired,  and  he  believed  that 
“ he  only  meant  to  knock  the  lock  off.” 

For  this  occurrence,  the  five  Irishmen  were  placed  on 
trial  for  willful  murder ; and  in  response  to  the  brutal 
passion  of  the  English  public,  inflamed  by  the  Government 
press,  they  were  all  sentenced  to  be  hanged — though  two 
were  afterward  respited. 

When  the  judge  formally  asked  the  prisoners  what  they 
had  to  say,  William  Allen,  like  the  brave  man  he  was, 
spoke  up  and  said:  “No  man  in  this  court  regrets  the 
death  of  Sergeant  Brett  more  than  I do  ; and  I positively 
say,  in  the  presence  of  the  Almighty,  that  I am  innocent, 
ay,  as  innocent  as  any  man  in  this  country.  I don’t  say 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


737 


this  for  the  sake  of  mercy.  I’ll  have  no  mercy  ; I want  no 
mercy.  I’ll  die,  as  many  thousands  have  died,  for  the 
sake  of  their  beloved  land,  and  in  defense  of  it ! ” 

And  a few  weeks  later,  on  the  23d  of  November,  1867, 
with  the  rope  around  their  necks,  these  three  young  men, 
Allen,  Larkin,  and  O’Brien,  looked  out  on  the  English 
crowd,  and  died  with  the  words,  “ God  Save  Ireland  ! ” on 
their  lips. 

May  they  rest  in  peace  in  their  graves  under  the  prison 
wall ! England  would  not  dare  give  their  bodies  to  Ire- 
land. The  grave  of  a martyr  is  a dangerous  place  for 
oppressors. 

The  greatest  service  a man  can  do  for  a good  cause  is  to 
die  for  it.  No  man’s  life  or  work,  however  illustrious,  is 
so  potential  as  a martyr  death.  The  cause  for  which  men 
are  willing  to  die  can  never  be  destroyed.  There  is  no  seed 
so  infallible  and  so  fruitful  as  the  seed  of  human  sacrifice. 
A rebel  is  never  so  terrible  as  when  the  tyrant  has  killed 
him. 

In  the  bright  future  which  is  swiftly  coming  to  Ire- 
land, the  names  of  those  who  died  for  her  will  be  written 
in  the  porch  of  the  national  temple.  No  country  on  earth 
has  ever  called  forth  deeper  devotion.  Her  altar-stones  are 
red  with  the  bloody  offerings  of  twenty  generations  of  men. 
The  heartless,  the  ignorant,  and  the  ignoble  of  other  races 
sometimes  weigh  the  result  against  the  cost,  and  shake  their 
heads.  But  they  only  tell  the  world  that  they  are  not  of 
the  stuff  to  keep  up  a losing  fight  for  seven  hundred  years 
with  odds  of  five  to  thirty  in  number  and  five  to  a mill- 
ion in  organization  and  wealth.  The  Irish  have  never 
lost  a man  in  their  long  fight,  for  no  man  is  lost  who  is  as 
strong  in  death  as  in  life.  The  sacrificial  geed  has  been 
fruitful  a thousand-fold.  It  will  burst  into  flower  sud- 
denly and  soon,  when  Ireland’s  Parliament  is  opened  on 
Irish  soil ; and  that  flower  will  drop  a seed  of  even 
greater  and  more  perfect  beauty  for  a future  day. 


THE  NEGRO-AMERICAN. 


On  Monday  evening1,  Dec.  7,  1885,  the  colored  men  of  Massachusetts, 
assembled  in  Faneuil  Hall  to  discuss  the  themes  familiar  to  this  place 
— civil  rights  and  human  freedom.  It  was  the  first  meeting  of  the 
Massachusetts  Colored  League,  and  Mr.  O’Reilly  was  the  speaker  of  the 
evening. 


MR.  President  and  Gentlemen  : I was  quite  unaware 
of  the  nature  of  this  meeting  when  I came  here.  I 
learn  from  Mr.  Downing’s  speech  that  it  is  more  or  less  a po- 
litical meeting ; that  you  are  going  to  express  preferences 
this  way  or  that.  I came  here  because  I was  asked  to  speak 
at  a colored  men’s  meeting  in  Boston.  I don’t  care  what 
your  political  preferences  or  parties  are.  I don’ t care  whether 
you  vote  the  Republican  or  Democratic  ticket,  but  I know 
that  if  I were  a colored  man  I should  use  parties  as  I would 
a club — to  break  down  prejudices  against  my  people.  I 
shouldn’t  talk  about  being  true  to  any  party,  except  so  far 
as  that  party  was  true  to  me.  Parties  care  nothing  for  you 
only  to  use  you.  You  should  use  parties ; the  highest 
party  you  have  in  this  country  is  your  own  manhood. 
That  is  the  thing  in  danger  from  all  parties ; that  is  the 
thing  that  every  colored  American  is  bound  in  his  duty  to 
himself  and  his  children  to  defend  and  protect. 

I think  it  is  as  wicked  and  unreasonable  to  discriminate 
against  a man  because  of  the  color  of  his  skin  as  it  would 
be  because  of  the  color  of  his  hair.  He  is  no  more  respon- 
sible for  one  than  for  the  other,  and  one  is  no  more  signifi- 
cant than  the  other.  A previous  speaker’s  reference  to.  Mr. 
Parnell  and  his  growing  power  as  a reformer  ought  to  sug- 
gest to  you  that  Parnell  is  to-day  a powerful  man  because 
he  is  pledged  to  no  party.  He  would  smash  the  Tories  to- 

738 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES.  789 

morrow  as  readily  as  he  smashed  the  Liberals  yesterday. 
That  is  the  meaning  of  politics.  The  highest  interest  of 
politics  is  the  selfish  interest  of  the  people.  You  are  never 
going  to  change  the  things,  that  affect  you  colored  men,  by 
law.  If  my  children  were  not  allowed  into  Northern 
schools,  if  I myself  were  not  allowed  into  Northern  hotels, 
I would  change  my  party  and  my  politics  every  day  until 
I changed  and  wiped  out  that  outrage. 

I was  in  Tennessee  last  spring,  and  when  I got  out  of 
the  cars  at  Nashville  I saw  over  the  door  of  an  apartment, 
‘‘Colored  people’s  waiting-room.”  I went  into  it  and 
found  a wretched,  poorly-furnished  room,  crowded  with 
men,  women,  and  children.  Mothers  with  little  children 
sat  on  the  unwashed  floor,  and  young  men  and  young 
women  filled  the  bare,  uncomfortable  seats  that  were  fast- 
ened to  the  walls.  Then  I went  out  and  found  over  another 
door,  “ Waiting-room.”  In  there  were  the  white  people, 
carefully  attended  and  comfortable ; separate  rooms  for 
white  men  and  women,  well  ventilated  and  well  kept.  I 
spent  two  days  in  Nashville,  and  every  hour  I saw  things 
that  made  me  feel  that  something  was  the  matter  either 
with  God  or  humanity  in  the  South  ; and  I said  going 
away,  “If  ever  the  colored  question  comes  up  again  as 
long  as  I live,  I shall  be  counted  in  with  the  black  men.” 

But  this  disregard  for  the  colored  people  does  not  only 
exist  in  the  South  ; I know  there  are  many  hotels  in  Bos- 
ton, where,  if  any  one  of  you  were  to  ask  for  a room,  they 
would  tell  you  that  all  the  rooms  were  filled. 

The  thing  that  most  deeply  afflicts  the  colored  American 
is  not  going  to  be  cured  by  politics.  You  have  received 
from  politics  already  about  all  it  can  give  you. 

You  may  change  the  law  by  politics,  but  it  is  not  the  law 
that  is  going  to  insult  and  outrage  and  excommunicate 
every  colored  American  for  generations  to  come.  You  can’ t 
cure  the  conceit  of  the  white  people  that  they  are  better 
than  you  by  politics,  nor  their  ignorance,  nor  their  preju- 
dice, nor  their  bigotry,  nor  any  of  the  insolences  which  they 
cherish  against  their  colored  fellow- citizens. 


740 


JOTIN  BOYLE  O* REILLY. 


Politics  is  the  snare  and  delusion  of  white  men  as  well  as 
black.  Politics  tickles  the  skin  of  the  social  order  ; but 
this  disease,  and  other  diseases  of  class,  privilege,  and 
inheritance,  lie  deep  in  the  internal  organs.  Social  equity 
is  based  on  principles  of  justice  ; political  change  on  the 
opinion  of  a time.  The  black  man’s  skin  will  be  a mark 
of  social  inferiority  so  long  as  white  men  are  conceited, 
ignorant  and  prejudiced.  You  cannot  legislate  these  qual- 
ities out  of  the  whites — you  must  steal  and  reason  them 
out  by  teaching,  illustration,  and  example. 

No  man  ever  came  into  the  world  with  a grander  oppor- 
tunity than  the  American  negro.  He  is  like  new  metal 
dug  out  of  the  mine.  He  stands  at  this  late  day  on  the 
threshold  of  history,  with  everything  to  learn  and  less  to 
unlearn,  than  any  civilized  man  in  the  world.  In  his  heart 
still  ring  the  free  sounds  of  the  desert.  In  his  mind  he 
carries  the  traditions  of  Africa.  The  songs  with  which  he 
charms  American  ears  are  refrains  from  the  tropical  forests, 
from  the  great  inland  seas  and  rivers  of  the  dark  continent. 

At  worst,  the  colored  American  has  only  a century  or  so 
of  degrading  civilized  tradition  and  habit  to  forget  and  un- 
learn. His  nature  has  only  been  injured  on  the  outside  by 
these  late  circumstances  of  his  existence.  Inside  he  is  a 
new  man,  fresh  from  nature — a color-lover,  an  enthusiast,  a 
believer  by  the  heart,  a philosopher,  a cheerful,  natural, 
good-natured  man.  I believe  the  colored  American  to  be 
the  kindliest  human  being  in  existence.  All  the  inhumani- 
ties of  slavery  have  not  made  him  cruel  or  sullen  or 
revengeful.  He  has  all  the  qualities  that  fit  him  to  be  a 
good  citizen  of  any  country  ; he  does  not  worry  his  soul  to- 
day with  the  fear  of  next  week  or  next  year.  He  has  feel- 
ings and  convictions,  and  he  loves  to  show  them.  He  sees 
no  reason  why  he  should  hide  them.  He  will  be  a great 
natural  expression  if  he  dares  to  express  the  beauty,  the 
color,  the  harmony  of  God’s  world  as  he  sees  it  with  a 
negro’s  eyes.  That  is  the  meaning  of  race  distinction — 
that  it  should  help  us  to  see  God’s  beauty  in  the  world  in 
various  ways. 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES.  741 

Wliat  this  splendid  man  needs  most  is  confidence  in 
himself  and  his  race.  He  is  a dependent  man  at  present. 
He  is  not  sure  of  himself.  He  underrates  his  own  qualities. 
He  must  be  a self-respecting  man.  Not  all  men  can  be  dis- 
tinguished, but  assuredly  some  distinct  expression  of  genius 
will  come  out  of  any  considerable  community  of  colored 
people  who  believe  in  themselves,  who  contemn  and  de- 
spise the  man  of  their  blood  who  apes  white  men  and  their 
ways,  who  is  proud  to  be  a negro,  who  will  bear  himself 
according  to  his  own  ideas  of  a colored  man,  who  will  en- 
courage his  women  to  dress  themselves  by  their  own  taste, 
to  select  the  rich  colors  they  love,  to  follow  out  their  own 
natural  bent,  and  not  to  adopt  other  people’s  stupid  and 
shop-made  fashions.  The  negro  woman  has  the  best  artis- 
tic eye  for  color  of  all  the  women  in  America. 

The  negro  is  the  only  graceful,  musical,  color-loving 
American.  He  is  the  only  American  who  has  written  new 
songs  and  composed  new  music.  He  is  the  most  spiritual 
of  Americans,  for  he  worships  with  soul  and  not  with 
narrow  mind.  For  him  religion  is  to  be  believed,  accepted 
like  the  very  voice  of  God,  and  not  invented,  contrived, 
reasoned  about,  shaded,  and  made  fashionably  lucrative  and 
marketable,  as  it  is  made  by  too  many  white  Americans. 

The  negro  is  a new  man,  a free  man,  a spiritual  man,  a 
hearty  man ; and  he  can  be  a great  man  if  he  will  avoid 
modeling  himself  on  the  whites.  No  race  ever  became 
illustrious  on  borrowed  ideas  or  the  imitated  qualities  of 
another  race. 

No  race  or  nation  is  great  or  illustrious  except  by  one 
test — the  breeding  of  great  men.  Not  great  merchants  or 
traders,  not  rich  men,  bankers,  insurance-mongers,  or 
directors  of  gas  companies.  But  great  thinkers — great 
seers  of  the  world  through  their  own  eyes — great  tellers  of 
the  truths  and  beauties  and  colors  and  equities  as  they 
alone  see  them.  Great  poets — ah,  great  poets  above  all — 
and  their  brothers,  great  painters  and  musicians,  fash- 
ioners of  God’s  beautiful  shapes  in  clay  and  marble  and 
harmony. 


742 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


The  negro  will  never  take  his  full  stand  beside  the  white 
man  till  he  has  given  the  world  proof  of  the  truth  and 
beauty  of  heroism  and  power  that  are  in  his  soul.  And 
only  by  the  organs  of  the  soul  are  these  delivered — by  self- 
respect  and  self-reflection,  by  philosophy,  religion,  poetry, 
art,  love,  and  sacrifice.  One  great  poet  will  be  worth  a 
hundred  bankers  and  brokers,  worth  ten  Presidents  of 
the  United  States,  to  the  negro  race.  One  great  musician 
will  speak  to  the  world  for  the  black  men  as  no  thousand 
editors  or  politicians  can. 

The  wealth  of  our  Western  soil,  in  its  endless  miles  of 
fertility,  is  less  to  America  than  the  unworked  wealth  of 
the  rich  negro  nature.  The  negro  poet  of  the  future  will  be 
worth  two  Mexicos  to  America.  God  send  wise  guides  to 
my  black  fellow-countrymen,  who  shall  lead  them  to  under- 
stand and  accept  what  is  true  and  great  and  perennial,  and 
to  reject  what  is  deceptive  and  changeable  in  life,  purpose, 
and  hope. 

It  is  a great  pleasure  to  me  to  say  these  things  that  I 
have  long  believed  to  a colored  meeting  in  Boston.  It 
would  be  a greater  pleasure  to  go  down  to  Nashville  and 
address  a colored  meeting  there  ; and  God  grant  that  it  may 
be  soon  possible  for  a Boston  white  man  to  go  down  to 
Nashville  and  address  colored  men.  As  I said  in  the  be- 
ginning, so  long  as  American  citizens  and  their  children  are 
excluded  from  schools,  theaters,  hotels,  or  common  con- 
veyances, there  ought  not  to  be  and  there  is  not  among  those 
who  love  justice  and  liberty,  any  question  of  race,  creed,  or 
color  ; every  heart  that  beats  for  humanity,  beats  with  the 
oppressed. 


MOORE  CENTENARY. 


Address  made  at  the  Celebration  of  the  Moore 
Centenary  in  Boston,  1879. 


ENTLEMEN : The  honorable  distinction  you  have 


given  me  at  the  head  of  your  table,  involves  a duty 
of  weight  and  delicacy.  At  such  a board  as  this,  where 
Genius  sits  smiling  at  Geniality,  the  President  becomes  a 
formality,  and  the  burden  of  his  duty  is  to  make  himself  a 
pleasant  nobody,  yet  natural  to  the  position.  Like  the 
apprentice  of  the  armorer,  it  is  my  task  only  to  hold  the 
hot  iron  on  the  anvil  while  the  skilled  craftsmen  strike  out 
the  tiexile  sword-blade. 

There  is  no  need  for  me  to  praise  or  analyze  the  character 
or  fame  of  the  great  poet  whose  centennial  we  celebrate. 
This  will  be  done  presently  by  abler  hands  in  eloquent  verse 
and  prose.  Tom  Moore  was  a poet  of  all  lands,  and  it  is  fit- 
ting that  his  centenary  should  be  observed  in  cosmopolitan 
fashion.  But  he  was  particularly  the  poet  of  Ireland,  and 
on  this  point  I may  be  allowed  to  say  a word  as  one  proud 
to  be  an  Irishman,  and  prouder  still  to  be  an  American. 

Not  blindly,  but  kindly  we  lay  our  wreath  of  rosemary 
and  immortelles  on  the  grave  of  Moore.  We  do  not  look  to 
him  for  the  wisdom  of  the  statesman,  or  the  boldness  of  the 
popular  leader.  Neither  do  we  look  for  solidity  to  the  rose 
bush,  nor  for  strength  to  the  nightingale,  yet  each  is  per- 
fect of  its  kind.  We  take  Tom  Moore  as  God  sent  him — 
not  only  the  sweetest  song- writer  of  Ireland,  but  even  in  this 
presence  I may  say,  the  first  song- writer  in  the  English 
language,  not  even  excepting  Burns. 

The  harshness  of  nature  or  of  human  relations  found 


744 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


faint  response  in  liis  harmonious  being.  He  was  born  in 
the  darkness  of  the  penal  days  ; he  lived  to  manhood  under 
the  cruel  law  that  bred  a terrible  revolution  ; but  he  never 
was  a rebel.  He  was  the  college  companion  and  bosom 
friend  of  Robert  Emmet,  who  gave  his  beautiful  life  on  the 
gibbet  in  protest  against  the  degradation  of  his  country ; 
but  Moore  took  only  a fitful  part  in  the  stormy  political 
agitation  of  the  time.  When  all  was  done,  it  was  clear  that 
he  was  one  thing  and  no  other — neither  a sufferer,  a rebel, 
an  agitator,  nor  a reformer — but  wholly  and  simply  a poet. 
He  did  not  rebel,  and  he  scarcely  protested.  But  he  did 
his  work  as  well  as  the  best  in  his  own  way.  He  sat  by  the 
patriot’s  grave,  and  sang  tearful  songs  that  will  make 
future  rebels  and  patriots.  It  was  a hard  task,  for  an  Irish- 
man in  Moore’s  day,  to  win  distinction,  unless  he  achieved 
it  by  treason  to  his  own  country.  In  his  own  bitter  words  : 

Unpriz’d  are  her  sons  till  they’ve  learned  to  betray ; 

Undistinguished  they  live,  if  they  shame  not  their  sires; 

And  the  torch  that  would  light  them  thro’  dignity’s  way, 

Must  be  caught  from  the  pile,  where  their  country  expires. 

And  yet  Moore  set  out  to  win  distinction,  and  to  win  it  in 
the  hardest  field.  The  literary  man  in  those  days  could 
only  live  by  the  patronage  of  the  great,  and  the  native  no- 
bility of  Ireland  was  dead  or  banished.  A poet,  too,  must 
have  an  audience  ; and  Moore  knew  that  his  audience  must 
not  only  be  his  poor  countrymen,  but  all  who  spoke  the 
English  language.  He  lived  as  an  alien  in  London  ; and  it 
is  hard  for  an  alien  to  secure  recognition  anywhere,  and 
especially  an  alien  poet.  The  songs  he  sang,  too,  were  not 
English  in  subject  or  tone,  but  Irish.  They  were  filled  with 
the  sadness  of  his  unhappy  country.  He  despaired  of  the 
freedom  of  Ireland,  and  bade  her 

Weep  on,  weep  on,  your  hour  is  past, 

Your  dream  of  pride  is  o’er  ; 

but  he  did  not  turn  from  the  ruin  to  seek  renown  from 
strange  and  profitable  subjects.  As  the  polished  Greeks, 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


745 


even  in  defeat,  conquered  their  Roman  conquerors  by  their 
refinement,  so  this  poet  sang  of  Ireland’s  sorrow  and  wrong, 
till  England  and  the  world  turned  to  listen.  In  one  of  his 
melodies,  which  is  full  of  pathetic  apology  to  his  country- 
men for  his  apparent  friendship  to  England,  he  sighs  in 
secret  over  Erin’s  ruin, — 

For  ’tis  treason  to  love  her  and  death  to  defend. 

He  foresaw  even  then  the  immortality  of  his  verse  and  the 
affection  of  future  generations  for  his  memory  when  he 
wrote : 

But  tho’  glory  be  gone,  and  tho’  hope  fade  away, 

Thy  n'ame,  loved  Erin,  shall  live  in  his  songs  ; 

Not  ev’n  in  the  hour  when  the  heart  is  most  gay 
Will  he  lose  remembrance  of  thee  and  thy  wrongs. 

The  stranger  shall  hear  thy  lament  on  his  plains  ; 

The  sigh  of  thy  harp  shall  be  sent  o’er  the  deep, 

’Til  thy  masters  themselves,  as  they  rivet  thy  chains, 

Shall  pause  at  the  song  of  their  captive  and  weep. 

But  this  was  not  his  entire  work  for  Ireland  and  for 
true  literature  and  art ; nor  is  it  for  this  sentimental  reason 
that  this  centenary  is  observed  throughout  the  world.  In 
some  countries  we  are  able  to  see  the  beginning  of  the  artis- 
tic or  literary  life  of  the  nation;  we  can  even  name  the 
writer  or  artist  who  began  the  beautiful  structure  ; and 
though  the  pioneer  work  is  often  crude,  it  merits  and 
receives  the  gratitude  of  the  nation.  Though  Moore  was  an 
original  poet  of  splendid  imagination,  he  undertook  a 
national  work  in  which  his  flights  were  restrained  by  the 
limitations  of  his  task.  He  set  himself  to  write  new  words 
to  old  music.  He  found  scattered  over  Ireland,  mainly 
hidden  in  the  cabins  of  the  poor,  pieces  of  antique  gold, 
inestimable  jewels  that  were  purely  Irish.  These  were  in 
danger  of  being  lost  to  the  world,  or  of  being  malformed  or 
stolen  from  their  rightful  owners  by  strangers  who  could 
discover  their  value.  These  jewels  were  the  old  Irish  airs 
— those  exquisite  fabrics  which  Moore  raised  into  matchless 
beauty  in  his  delicious  melodies. 


746 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


This  was  his  great  work.  He  preserved  the  music  of  his 
nation  and  made  it  imperishable.  It  can  never  be  lost  again 
till  English  ceases  to  be  spoken.  He  struck  it  out  like  a 
golden  coin,  with  Erin’s  stamp  on  it,  and  it  has  become  cur- 
rent and  unquestioned  in  all  civilized  nations. 

For  this  we  celebrate  his  centennial.  For  this,  gentlemen, 
I call  on  you  to  rise — for  after  one  year,  or  a hundred,  or  a 
thousand,  we  may  pour  a libation  to  a great  man — I ask 
you  to  rise  and  drink 


“The  Memory  of  Tom  Moore.” 


THE  IRISH  NATIONAL  CAUSE. 


Address  delivered  in  Mechanics’  Hall,  Boston, 
Mass.,  on  St.  Patrick’s  Day,  1890. 


THERE  might  be  a doubt  of  the  success  of  the  Irish 
national  cause  if  it  were  wholly  sentimental,  or  if  its 
expressions  were  irregular,  -fitful,  or  spasmodic.  The  causes 
or  movements  that  have  the  elements  of  assured  success, 
accordingly,  belong  to  the  history  of  the  human  race  and 
not  to  a mere  handful  of  people  from  a remote  corner  of  the 
earth,  and  must  be  tested  by  three  supreme  tests : the  test  of 
right  principle,  the  test  of  endurance,  and  the  test  of 
growth. 

The  principle  underlying  the  Irish  movement  is  the  un- 
questionable one  of  a nation’s  right  to  its  own  country  and 
laws,  to  develop  its  own  resources,  to  tell  its  own  story  to 
the  world  in  its  own  way,  and  not  in  the  way  of  another 
country  ; to  have  a full  and  fair  chance  for  expressing  its 
national  genius.  “The  noblest  principle  is  the  public 
good,”  said  the  Latin  poet,  and  this  proposition  has  the 
agreement  of  all  good  men.  It  is  true  of  all  Ireland’s 
struggles  ; she  has  fought  not  only  for  improvement  of  rule, 
but  for  her  very  life.  Her  people  have  not  merely  been 
condemned  to  subjection,  but  to  extermination. 

The  second  test  is  of  endurance.  What  need  to  prove 
this  for  Ireland’s  history?  Her  fight  has  not  varied  in 
over  700  years  ; 600  years  ago,  or  400  years  ago,  or  300 
years,  or  100  years  ago  the  condition  of  Ireland  would  be 
almost  similar  to  that  of  the  present  time.  At  any  of  these 
periods  the  country  would  be  found  in  open  or  latent 
rebellion  against  foreign  oppression  ; its  chief  men  either 

747 


748 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


in  arms,  or  in  prison,  or  in  exile  ; but  defeat  in  Ireland 
never  meant  despair.  Every  generation  renewed  the  fight 
as  if  it  were  beginning  for  the  first  time.  Every  twenty 
years  for  centuries  there  has  been  a systematic  and  definite 
new  order  of  rebellion  in  Ireland.  Each  generation  of 
young  men  willingly  following  in  the  footsteps  of  those 
who  went  before  them,  whether  they  led  to  prison  or  to 
death.  The  crew  that  pulls  a long  race  and  a losing  one — 
is  the  strongest  crew.  This  willing  sacrifice  has  actually 
changed  the  meanings  of  accepted  terms. 

Irishmen  have  established  a recognized  code  of  moral 
right,  as  against  statute  laws  and  arbitrary  governments 
which  all  the  world  recognizes  ; which  even  England  recog- 
nizes, which  is  constantly  putting  their  enemy  in  the  wrong ; 
and  putting  your  enemy  in  the  wrong  in  the  sight  of  men 
is  the  worst  kind  of  defeat,  against  which  neither  individual 
nor  nation  can  long  persist.  Ireland  has  made  a principle 
of  pacific  opposition  and  rejection  of  bad  law.  The  Irish, 
perhaps,  has,  of  all  nations,  with  the  hottest  and  most  pas- 
sionate blood,  harnessed  and  controlled  the  national  heart 
and  the  quick  hand  to  strike,  and  changed  material  defeat 
into  moral  victory.  They  have  taught  themselves  and  the 
world  the  secret  of  winning  by  submission.  4 4 They  have 
made  the  cell  a national  shrine,”  says  the  greatest  of  Eng- 
lishmen,— Mr.  Gladstone.  44  They  have  made  the  cell  a 
national  shrine,  and  the  prison  garb  the  dress  of  the  highest 
honor.”  They  have  won  by  the  noblest  means, — not  by 
destroying,  but  by  converting  their  enemies.  They  have 
won  with  a minority,— which  is  the  supremest  test  of  power. 

41 1 will  put  down  this  national  movement  in  Ireland,” 
said  Secretary  Forster,  a few  years  ago,  4 4 if  you  give  me 
power  to  imprison  all  men  whom  I consider  dangerous.” 

They  gave  him  the  power  and  he  exercised  it, — poor 
Buckshot  Forster, — and  he  learned  the  tremendous  lesson 
that  in  Ireland  imprisonment  for  patriotism  was  not  a 
punishment  but  an  honor.  With  what  weapon  must  that 
country  be  struck  where  the  palace  is  a temple  of  infamy, 
and  the  prison  a shrine  of  national  honor  t 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


749 


As  to  the  growth  or  expansion  of  the  Irish  national 
movement,  one  hundred  years  ago  there  were  scarcely 
4,000,000  of  Irish  people  in  the  world  ; 200,000  or  300,000 
of  those  were  in  this  country,  mainly  in  New  Hampshire 
and  Pennsylvania ; another  100,000  on  the  continent  of 
Europe  serving  in  the  various  armies,  and  the  remainder 
were  all  in  Ireland,  shut  up  as  in  a prison ; behind 
them  six  centuries  of  war  and  defeat,  and  inexpressible 
suffering  ; behind  them  immediately,  one  hundred  years  of 
such  local  tyranny  by  a class  ruling  and  robbing  in  the 
name  of  law  and  religion,  as  no  other  civilized  country  had 
ever  experienced.  Then  came  a burst  of  despair  ; of  hope- 
less agony.  In  the  year  1798,  the  brave  people  dashed 
their  naked  hands  against  the  enemy’s  sabers  and  bayonets ; 
and  the  last  years  of  the  last  century  went  down  on  Ireland 
in  the  blood  of  the  people,  the  smoke  of  their  homes,  and 
the  suppression  of  their  national  parliament.  There  never 
was  such  desolation  in  any  country  since  the  Assyrians  deso- 
lated Judea,  as  overwhelmed  Ireland  at  the  close  of  the 
last  century.  After  the  rebellion  of  1798,  all  law  but  the 
law  of  the  pistol,  the  sword,  and  the  scaffold  was  abolished. 
The  Irish  Parliament  was  swept  away.  The  whole  popula- 
tion, except  the  Protestants,  were  disfranchised,  disorgan- 
ized,— friendless,  voiceless,  helpless.  The  Act  of  Union, 
which  abolished  the  Parliament  of  Ireland,  went  into  effect 
on  the  first  day  of  the  first  year  of  this  present  century. 
On  that  dark  day  an  Irish  poet  wrote  a mournful  poem  on 
his  country  : 

Thou  art  chained  to  the  wheel  of  the  foe — by  links  which  the 
world  shall  not  sever  ; 

With  thy  tyrant  thro’  storm  and  thro1  calm  shalt  thou  go, 
and  thy  sentence  is  bondage  forever. 

In  the  nations  thy  place  is  left  void — thou  art  lost  in  the  lists  of 
the  free — 

Even  realms  by  the  plague  and  the  earthquake  destroyed  may 
revive — but  no  hope  is  for  thee  ! 

The  Irish  Parliament  was  abolished  on  the  pretense 
that  the  country  could  be  governed  more  peaceably,  and  led 


750 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’kEILLY. 


to  greater  prosperity  under  British  rule.  But  three  years 
after  the  Union,  a Coercion  Act  was  applied  to  Ireland. 
Robert  Emmet  and  his  brave  compatriots  were  hanged  in 
Dublin,  and  for  those  eighty-nine  years  coercion  has  ruled 
Ireland  for  every  year  except  twenty-two  separated  years. 

There  has  never  been  a period  of  longer  than  six  years 
without  a coercion  law.  The  longest  period  was  from  1850 
to  1855.  Those  coercion  laws  have  been  enforced  by  the 
bayonet  and  two  standing  armies,  14,000  constabulary,  and 
an  average  of  50,000  soldiers ; for  their  support  the  Irish 
people  are  taxed,  while  even  the  material  contracts  for  this 
support  are  controlled  by  English  houses.  Throughout  all 
this  period  the  double  injury  has  been  done  of  misrepre- 
senting and  defaming  the  people.  England  has  told  the 
outer  world  that  the  Irish  farmers  were  poor  because  they 
would  not  improve  their  farms.  Why  should  they  improve 
farms  that  did  not  belong  to  them,  and  where  every  im- 
provement raised  the  rent  higher  ? The  English  Tories  said 
they  had  been  compelled  to  coerce  the  Irish,  because  they 
would  quarrel  among  themselves  on  account  of  religion  ; 
that  the  Catholic  hated  the  Protestant  and  would  destroy 
him,  or  tyrannize  over  him  if  he  had  the  power.  But  this 
division  of  the  Irish  was  a skillfully  and  deliberately  framed 
device  of  the  English.  A Catholic  did  not  hate  a Protes- 
tant because  he  was  a Protestant,  but  because  he  was  a po- 
litical oppressor.  The  law  was  so  framed  that  political 
power  was  limited  by  religion.  To  seduce  or  coerce  the 
people  from  the  Catholic  religion,  the  whole  Catholic  popu- 
lation was  deprived  of  all  rights,  and  practically  made 
slaves. 

This  injustice  has  been  changed ; but  only  formally. 
At  the  present  time  Ireland,  with  4,000,000  Catholics,  has 
only  700  Catholic  magistrates  ; and  with  only  1,000,000 
of  Protestants,  has  3500  Protestant  magistrates.  And  the 
Catholics  who  are  magistrates  are  selected  because  they 
hate  the  people  and  the  people  hate  them  ; for  religion 
has  nothing  to  do  with  the  Irish  question.  The  best  answer 
to  this  slur  on  the  good  name  of  the  people  lies  in  the  fact 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


751 


that  in  every  movement,  since  Protestantism  first  went  to 
Ireland,  in  every  movement  against  English  authority  and 
tyranny,  among  the  most  trusted  leaders,  the  bravest  spirits, 
the  most  revered  martyrs  to  the,  national  cause,  have  been 
Protestant  Irishmen.  Nearly  all  the  names  that  are  vene- 
rated as  heroes  and  martyrs  in  the  long  list  of  Irish  nation- 
ality are  the  names  of  Protestants.  Indeed,  they  out- 
number the  names  of  Catholics.  Robert  Emmet,  Henry 
Grattan,  Wolf  Tone,  the  Presbyterian  who  organized  the 
rebellion  of  ’98  ; the  Sheares  brothers,  Bagenal  Harvey, 
Lord  Edward  [Fitzgerald  ; these  in  ’98  and  1803  down  to 
John  Mitchell  and  John  Martin  in  1848  ; from  them  again 
to  the  present  leader  of  the  Irish  national  movement,  a 
Protestant  also,  Charles  Stewart  Parnell. 

Since  the  first  year  of  the  century  the  pressure  on  Ireland 
which  was  intended  to  destroy  or  banish  the  people,  has 
never  been  let  up  ; there  have  been  repeated  rebellions  and 
movements  of  national  protest,  and  at  present  the  country 
is  bowed  under  a condition  of  lawlessness  in  the  name  of 
law,  which  is  an  outrage  on  the  nineteenth  century.  Many 
of  the  leading  members  of  Parliament,  and  the  most  beloved 
public  men  in  the  nation,  are  or  have  been  recently  in  prison, 
and  are  there  subjected  to  skillfully  devised  and  degrading 
torture.  Trial  by  jury  is  abolished  ; arrest  by  warrant  is 
abolished.  The  entire  country  is  under  the  control  of  paid 
magistrates,  appointed  by  the  government ; magistrates 
called  “ removables,”  because  to  make  them  the  unscrupu- 
lous tools  of  their  employers,  they  can  be  removed  at  any  time. 
And  yet  Irishmen  can  face  their  antagonists  to-day  with  a 
greater  confidence  than  ever  before,  and  ask,  What  have 
you  gained  by  your  merciless  oppression  since  the  Union 
went  into  effect  in  1801  or  since  Robert  Emmet  was  hanged 
in  1803  ? Ireland  now  says  to  her  foe  : “ You  are  now  face 
to  face,  not  with  4,000,000  helpless  and  friendless  people 
shut  up  by  your  fleets  in  Ireland,  but  you  are  opposed  by  at 
least  40,000,000  of  people  with  Irish  blood  and  sympathy, 
most  of  whom  are  potential  elements  in  the  great  countries 
which  hold  in  their  hands  the  future  destinies  of  the  British 


752 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 

Empire.  There  are  nearly  5,000,000  people  in  Ireland  ; 
there  are  at  least  4,000,000  Irish  and  their  descendants  in 
Great  Britain  ; in  London  alone,  it  is  said,  that  there  are 
1,000,000  Irish  people  ; in  the  United  States,  during  the  last 
forty  years  alone,  4,000,000  people  have  come  from  Ireland, 
and  these  were  almost  wholly  people  in  their  young  man- 
hood and  womanhood.  The  natural  increase  from  such  a 
starting-point  alone,  leaving  out  the  millions  who  had  come  to 
this  country  from  its  earliest  settlement,  would  give  proba- 
bly, at  a safe  estimate,  20,000,000  of  the  American  popula- 
tion of  direct  Irish  blood. 

Wherever  the  English  flag  has  gone  around  the  world 
in  its  domain  of  conquest, —and  it  is  said  that  the  sun  never 
sets  on  the  English  dominions, — be  sure  that  accompanying 
that  flag  have  gone  the  numerous  and  unified  Irish  hearts, 
who  carry  with  them  the  opposition  that  they  learned  at 
home.  And  the  Irish  and  English  in  the  colonies  and  in 
the  United  States  do  not  continue  enemies  ; as  soon  as  they 
settle  down  in  the  new  countries,  the  Irish  convert  their  old 
enemies  into  friends. 

But  not  only  in  numbers  has  the  Irish  movement  grown, 
but  in  expansion  of  principle.  In  the  early  days  of  this 
century,  the  national  fight  resolved  itself  into  a question  of 
Catholic  enfranchisement  carried  in  1829  ; then  of  tenant 
right,  and  after  generations  had  spent  their  energies  and 
lives  in  trying  to  make  headway  against  the  selfishness  and 
ignorance  of  the  Irish  landlord  party,  the  answer  was  given 
to  Ireland  by  Sir  Robert  Peel  in  1862,  when  he  said,  “ The 
Land  Act  of  1860  has  effected  the  final  settlement  of  the 
Irish  land  question.”  And  Lord  Palmerston,  in  1865,  com- 
pleted this  expression  by  declaring  that  “ Tenant  right  was 
landlord  wrong.”  In  this  land  agitation  both  English  par- 
ties were  against  Ireland.  Indeed,  the  Tory  landlords  had 
made  their  Liberal  opponents  the  worst  enemies  of  Ireland, 
for  up  to  1870  the  most  extreme  measures  of  Irish  land  re- 
form had  been  introduced  by  the  Tories.  For  instance,  Lord 
Stanley’s  Bill  in  1865,  Mr.  Napier’s  Bill  in  1852,  and  the 
Tory  Bill  in  1867. 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES.  753 

But  observe  the  moral  teaching  which  Ireland  has  done 
on  this  question.  In  1870,  Mr.  Gladstone  introduced  his  fa- 
mous Land  Bill,  the  three  principles  of  which  were  : First, 
the  extension  of  Ulster  tenant  right  throughout  Ireland ; 
second,  to  render  landlords  liable  for  compensation  to  an 
evicted  tenant ; third,  to  facilitate  the  establishment  of 
peasant  proprietary  ; and  this  bill,  five  years  after  Lord 
Palmerston’s  statement  that  “ tenant  right  was  landlord 
wrong,”  was  passed  in  the  House  of  Commons  by  the  ex- 
traordinary vote  of  442  to  11. 

Froude  says  of  this  Land  Act  of  1870,  “ It  was  the  best 
measure,  perhaps  the  only  good  measure,  which  has  passed 
for  Ireland  for  200  years.” 

The  importance  of  this  measure  is  not  confined  to  Ireland. 
It  is  for  all  constitutional  governments  the  first  instance, 
perhaps,  in  which  the  statute  law  has  been  directly  subor- 
dinated to  the  law  of  God  ; the  first  instance  in  which  the 
right  of  private  property  in  land  was  restrained  by  the 
national  and  individual  rights  of  the  people.  That  law 
sounded  the  doom  of  landed  aristocracy  in  every  country 
of  the  earth.  It  cried  u halt ! ” to  the  landlord’s  power  to 
evict  a whole  nation  by  a law  made  in  that  nation’s  own 
name. 

Then  came  the  movement  for  the  Repeal  of  the  Union, 
under  O’Connell.  Contrast  the  present  movement  in  Ire- 
land, or  rather,  throughout  the  world  in  favor  of  Ireland, 
with  this  movement  of  less  than  half  a century  ago.  No 
two  leaders  could  be  more  unlike  than  O’  Connell  and  Par- 
nell, though  there  are  some  points  of  resemblance  ! O’  Con- 
nell was  a great  parliamentary  tactician  ; so  is  Parnell. 
O’Connell  considered  that  he  was  responsible,  not  to  the 
British,  but  to  the  Irish  people  for  his  conduct  and  mode 
of  warfare  ; so  does  Parnell.  O’Connell  never  approached 
Parliament  in  humility  and  fear  ; he  came  boldly  to  de- 
mand justice  for  his  country  ; so  does  Parnell.  In  three 
other  characteristics  the  two  men  resemble  each  other. 
Strength  of  will,  courage,  and  backbone.  But  here  the 
resemblance  ends  between  the  men  and  their  times  and  their 


754' 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


movements.  It  was  O’Connell  who  inspired  the  Irish  peo- 
ple ; it  is  the  Irish  people  who  inspire  Parnell.  O’Connell 
always  took  the  initiative  and  allowed  little  scope  to  the 
energies  of  his  followers.  Parnell  lets  the  people  take  the 
initiative  and  he  utilizes  all  the  energies  of  the  Irish  party. 
O’Connell  did  and  thought  everything  for  himself  and  for 
the  people.  Parnell  does  very  little  except  to  quietly  di- 
rect. O’Connell  created  public  opinion;  Parnell  repre- 
sents it.  O’Connell  raised  the  storm  ; Parnell  guides  it. 
O’Connell  had  only  four  lieutenants  ; Shiel  and  his  own 
three  sons,  Morris,  John,  and  Morgan.  Parnell  has  sur- 
rounded himself,  or  rather  has  been  surrounded,  by  the 
representatives  of  the  country ; with  eighty-five  members 
of  Parliament,  who  take  rank  among  the  boldest,  ablest,  and 
most  sagacious  national  leaders  who  have  ever  been  known 
in  the  history  of  civilization.  What  reformer  or  national 
leader  ever  fought  with  nobler  aides  beside  him  than 
Healey,  Sexton,  O’Connell,  Justin  McCarthy,  John  Dillon, 
William  O’Brien,  and  that  great  outsider,  that  incompar- 
able free  lance,  who  is  too  large,  and  too  free,  and  too  wise 
to  put  himself  into  any  harness,  even  the  harness  of  the 
parliamentary  service  of  Ireland, — Michael  Davitt,  the 
father  of  the  Land  League  ? 

W endell  Phillips  said  that  Daniel  O’  Connell  taught  the 
world  the  meaning  and  method  of  agitation.  But  Parnell 
has  done  more  than  O’Connell  had  the  opportunity  of  doing, 
because  the  Ireland  of  our  time  is  essentially  different  from 
the  Ireland  of  forty  or  fifty  years  ago.  Parnell  has  moved 
and  united  not  only  the  five  millions  in  Ireland,  but  he  has 
added  to  these  the  moral  support  of  the  thirty-five  millions 
of  their  exiled  kindred. 

Less  than  a dozen  years  ago,  when  he  appeared  in  the 
public  life  of  his  country,  a young  and  unknown  member  of 
Parliament,  Ireland  was  sunk  in  the  depths  of  social  and 
political  oppression.  Her  people  had  fled  for  tw^o  genera- 
tions, and  were  still  flying  from  their  unhappy  country,  as 
the  clouds  fly,  across  the  sea.  “They  are  going  with  a 
vengeance  ! ’ ’ cried  the  London  Times . Ten  years  ago  this 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


7 55 


young  man’s  voice  arrested  the  attention  of  the  people  within 
the  island  ; he  came,  as  it  were,  to  the  hill-tops  by  the  sea, 
and  stretched  out  his  hands  to  the  flying  clouds,  and  appealed 
to  them,  and  the  clouds  stayed  tlieir  course.  The  eyes  of 
the  exiles  returned  at  the  call,  and  their  hearts  and  their 
hands  were  opened  to  the  need  of  their  mother  land.  They 
sent  back  their  moral  sympathies  and  support  to  help  their 
struggling  brethren  to  meet  the  organized  and  material 
strength  of  their  enemy.  They  became  representatives,  in 
the  various  lands  in  which  their  homes  lay,  of  the  special 
quality  of  strength  which  Ireland  is  proving  to  the  world 
she  possesses.  This  strength  may  be  said  to  be  the  exact 
opposite  to  that  of  England. 

The  strength  of  England  is,  and  always  has  been,  ma- 
terial force  ; organization ; concentration ; weight  of  stroke ; 
selfishness  of  purpose.  Her  power  has  marched  through  the 
centuries  and  the  nations  like  a mail-clad  battalion,  plowing 
its  way,  repellent,  unsympathetic,  defying  criticism,  bound 
on  the  seizure  of  its  prey,  disregarding  the  opinions  of  man- 
kind. 

The  power  that  Ireland  has  exerted  through  her  ban- 
ished millions,  is  immaterial,  diffused,  intellectual,  spiritual ; 
the  very  opposite  to  that  of  England.  But  it  is  the  power 
of  the  steam,  as  compared  to  the  power  of  the  water.  So  far 
the  nations  represent  opposites  : One  concussion ; the  other 

conversion.  One  a threat ; the  other  an  argument.  One 
repels  ; the  other  attracts.  One  makes  enemies  ; the  other 
makes  friends.  One  wastes  its  own  strength  in  every 
effort ; the  other  increases  its  power  with  every  exertion. 
Ireland  appeals  through  her  scattered  children  and  their 
descendants  to  the  consciences  of  men.  They  make  man- 
kind a jury  to  whom  they  are  constantly  appealing  for  a 
verdict  against  the  lawless  and  cruel  and  piratical  rule  of 
England  in  Ireland.  Against  the  deep  injury  done  to  an 
ancient  and  proud  nation  that  had  done  its  full  share  in 
the  glory  of  civilization,  until  it  was  interrupted,  ruined, 
and  misrepresented  by  this  robber  invasion. 

The  rapidity  with  which  the  Irish  movement  spreads 


756 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


may  be  estimated  by  this  extraordinary  fact : that  twelve 
years  ago,  Mr.  Parnell,  who  is  now  one  of  the  leading  na- 
tional figures  among  the  governments  of  the  world,  was 
utterly  unknown . Ten  years  ago,  there  was  no  Irish  national 
party  in  the  British  House  of  Commons,  except  a nonde- 
script and  diluted  nationalism  represented  by  whig  land- 
lords. 

It  is  only  ten  years  ago  since  to  that  world  dictionary,  that 
is  made  up  of  words  and  names  that  belong  to  all  men  and 
tongues,  names  and  words  that  represent  ideas  like  “ Bunker 
Hill,”  and  “’93”;  like  “Robespierre,”  and  the  “Mar- 
seillaise” ; like  the  perjurer  “ Titus  Oates,”  and  the  traitor 
“Arnold,”  was  added  the  name  of  “Capt.  Boycott.” 

But  no  name  of  honor  or  infamy  has  ever  carried  the  Irish 
cause  further,  or  in  more  directions,  or  has  ever,  in  a word, 
done  more  good  to  the  Irish  national  movement  than  the 
name  of  the  detestable  creature,  who  was  the  agent  and  the 
victim  of  a still  more  detestable  and  cowardly  conspiracy, 

‘ 4 Richard  Pigott,  ’ ’ and  the  London  Times.  In  view  of  their 
story,  all  minds  that  are  free  from  prejudice  are  willing  to 
agree  that  the  government  that  can  only  rule  by  such  means, 
with  such  tools,  at  the  end  of  the  nineteenth  century,  after 
leaving  a record  in  Ireland  from  the  first  year  of  that  cen- 
tury to  the  present,  of  coercion  and  oppression,  of  murder 
and  lawlessness  and  eviction,  and  of  the  burning  of  homes, 
of  the  ruin  of  a whole  population, — the  government  that 
must  depend  on  such  infamous  agents  as  the  London  Times , 
and  Houston  the  Orangeman,  and  Le  Caron  the  spy,  and 
Pigott  the  perjurer,  is  condemned  out  of  its  own  mouth. 
All  this  diabolical  machinery  was  set  in  motion  on  the  day 
Parliament  was  to  vote  on  the  coercion  act  for  Ireland  ; and 
by  this  means  that  dreadful  act  was  passed.  Surely,  this 
government  is  an  evil  in  the  sight  of  man  and  God.  A dan- 
ger to  all  truly  civilized  governments.  A corrupter  of  social 
and  political  life. 

And  so  we  claim  that  though  coercion  still  rules  in  Ire- 
land, the  cause  of  Home  Rule  shall  be  won  in  the  end. 
The  consummation  may  be  delayed  a few  weeks  or  months, 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


757 


but  the  inevitable  must  soon  appear.  The  sunburst  is  red- 
dening the  sky  in  the  east. 

A few  years  ago  an  old  ship  was  set  afloat  on  the  Niagara 
River,  ten  miles  above  the  great  falls.  The  crowd  that 
watched  it  on  the  bank  cheered  when  they  saw  the  current 
carry  it  out  to  the  center  and  down  toward  the  rapids. 
One  man  calculated  the  rapidity  of  the  stream.  “It  goes 
four  miles  an  hour,”  he  said  ; “in  two  hours  and  a half  she 
will  go  over  the  falls.” 

So  they  took  to  their  horses  and  carriages  and  trains,  and 
went  to  the  falls  to  see  her  go  over.  They  saw  the  powerful 
rapids  take  the  ship  and  wheel  her  round,  and  almost  dash 
her  to  pieces,  as  the  Home  Rule  victories  in  Scotland  whirled 
and  confounded  the  Tories ; they  saw  a great  rock  split  her 
keel,  as  the  victories  in  Wales  split  the  Tories;  they  saw 
her  leaping  down  toward  the  last  hundred  yards  of  the  fatal 
course  and  thrown  on  her  beam  ends  by  a bowlder  as  big  as 
the  Home  Rule  victory  in  Kensington,  London,  last  week ; 
but  just  when  the  last  plunge  was  coming  and  the  world 
was  preparing  to  cheer,  the  doomed  vessel  was  caught  be- 
tween two  rocks  on  the  very  verge  of  the  falls.  And  there 
she  hung  for  three  days,  with  a rock — like  the  Joseph 
Chamberlain — holding  her  back,  but  breaking  into  her 
side  at  the  same  time;  till,  at  last,  the  mad  flood  leaped 
into  her  and  over  her,  and  ship  and  rock  together  were 
rolled  over  and  dashed  to  splinters  in  the  river  under  the 
falls. 

And  so  St.  Patrick's  Hay,  1890,  marks  the  high-water  of 
the  Irish  national  tide.  Around  the  world  to-night,  like  a 
bugle  call,  shrills  the  confident  congratulations  of  the  Irish 
race.  They  have  reason  to  be  happy,  and  confident,  and 
hopeful.  The  good  will  of  the  world  is  with  Ireland,  and 
the  Baal-time  fires  of  St.  Patrick  are  as  cosmopolitan  as 
the  drum-beat  of  Great  Britain.  She  is  taking  the  rivets 
out  of  Toryism  everywhere,  and  God  is  saving  Ireland. 


IRELAND’S  COMMERCIAL  AND  INDUSTRIAL 
RESOURCES. 


Address  before  the  Beacon  Society  of  Boston, 
Saturday,  February  28,  1886. 


HE  Beacon  Society  of  Boston  held  its  regular  monthly 


dinner  at  the  Revere  House,  on  Saturday,  February  28, 
1886.  By  request,  Mr.  John  Boyle  O’Reilly  addressed  the 
company  on  “ The  Industrial  and  Commercial  Aspects  of 
the  Irish  Question.”  President  John  C.  Paige  introduced 
the  speaker. 

Mr.  O’Reilly,  referring  to  the  happy  introductory  speech 
of  the  President,  said: 

Gentlemen  : However  much  humor  there  may  be 

attached  to  the  general  characteristics  of  my  countrymen, 
there  is  nothing  but  tragedy  connected  with  the  industrial 
and  commercial  questions  of  Ireland.  The  general  view  of 
Ireland  and  the  Irish  question  is  relegated  to  the  sentimen- 
tal. In  truth,  it  is  one  of  the  most  material  and  practical 
of  questions.  Very  few  men  take  the  trouble  of  question- 
ing the  statement  that  has  been  given  to  the  world  by  the 
interested  party  for  one  hundred  or  two  hundred  years. 
The  statement  has  been  made  that  the  Irish  people  are  sim- 
ply a troublesome,  purposeless,  quarrelsome  people,  who 
could  not  govern  themselves  if  they  had  an  opportunity. 
That  is  the  tribute  which  injustice  pays  in  all  cases  to 
morality.  If  a man  injure  another  man,  he  must  also  injure 
his  character  in  order  to  stand  well  in  the  community,  to 
justify  his  own  action,  for,  if  he  did  not,  his  fellow-men 
would  drive  him  out.  England  has  misrepresented  the 
character  of  the  Irish  people  with  a set  purpose,  and  with 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


759 


the  same  purpose  has  misrepresented  their  industrial  and 
commercial  resources.  The  sentimental  question  is  simply 
the  natural  desire  of  men  to  rule  their  own  country  and 
make  their  own  laws.  The  Greeks  were  applauded  in  Lon- 
don the  other  day  when  they  said:  “We  want  to  work 

out  the  Greek  purpose  among  Greeks.”  The  Greeks  are 
no  more  a distinct  nationality  than  the  Irish.  The  Greeks 
are  no  more  unlike  other  nations  than  the  Irish.  A tight 
that  has  gone  on  seven  hundred  and  fifty  years  between  a 
weak  country  and  a very  strong  one  is  assuredly  a fight 
based  on  no  weak  or  worthless  sentiment. 

The  Irish  have  never  compromised.  They  have  been 
beaten  because  they  were  weaker,  but  they  have  never 
compromised.  They  have  been  rebellious  and  troublesome. 
They  have  been  Nationalists  all  the  time.  They  claimed 
seven  hundred,  six  hundred,  five  hundred  years  ago  pre- 
cisely what  they  claim  to-day : the  right  to  their  own 
country,  to  make  their  own  laws,  to  work  out  their  own 
individual  nationality  among  men.  If  there  is  to  be  credit 
or  discredit  given  them,  they  want  to  earn  it,  and  to  tell 
their  own  faults  or  virtues  to  the  world.  They  do  not  want 
another  nation,  and  an  unfriendly  one,  to  tell  the  world 
what  Ireland  and  its  people  are.  The  ear  of  the  world  has 
been  held  by  England  with  regard  to  Ireland,  particularly 
in  this  country,  since  the  foundation  of  it.  Very  few  men 
in  America  who  are  not  Irish  have  realized  that  the  Irish 
question  is,  as  I have  said,  more  largely  material  than  sen- 
timental. 

In  1696  the  King  of  England  sent  to  Ireland  a commis- 
sion of  five  men  to  examine  the  country  and  report  to  the 
King  and  Council  as  to  the  best  means  of  holding  the  Irish 
in  subjection.  They  had  then  had  five  hundred  years  of 
continuous  Irish  war.  They  had  realized  the  enormous  ad- 
vantage that  Ireland  possessed  in  position.  If  Ireland  were 
on  the  other  side  of  England  there  would  be  no  Irish  ques- 
tion. Ireland  is  on  the  Atlantic  side  of  England.  The 
question  has  always  been  a geographical  one.  Ireland  con- 
trols the  main  points  for  commerce  with  Northern  Europe, 


760 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


and  she  has  in  her  own  self  such  a treasury  of  possible 
wealth  as  no  other  nation  in  Europe  has.  This  commission, 
sent  in  1696,  remained  in  Ireland  a year,  and  reported  to 
the  King  in  1697.  The  report  was  summarized  in  these 
words:  “ There  are  two  ways  of  holding  Ireland  in  sub- 

jection : By  a standing  army  in  the  hands  of  Englishmen  ; 
and  by  checking  the  growth  of  the  country  in  trade  and 
wealth,  that  it  may  never  become  dangerous  to  England 
anywhere.”  That  was  two  centuries  ago.  That  policy  was 
adopted  by  King  and  Council ; and,  no  matter  what  change 
of  Whig  or  Tory,  Liberal  or  Conservative,  since  came  for 
Great  Britain,  there  was  no  change  for  Ireland.  That  fear- 
ful and  atrocious  policy  continued  until  the  appointment  of 
one  of  the  best  Englishmen  and  one  of  the  ablest  as  Secre- 
tary for  Ireland,  Mr.  John  Morley,  a few  weeks  ago.  There 
had  not  been  a rift  in  that  dark  cloud  between  those  two 
dates. 

Mr.  O’ Reilly  read  the  following  extracts  from  renowned 
English  writers,  showing  the  perfect  knowledge  England 
has  had  for  centuries  of  the  wonderful  resources  of  Ireland. 
England’s  course  has  been  steered,  he  said,  with  delibera- 
tion. Three  hundred  years  ago  the  illustrious  English  poet, 
Spenser,  who  had  lived  for  years  in  Ireland,  thus  described 
the  country : 

And  sure  it  is  a most  beautiful  and  sweet  country  as  any  under 
heaven,  being  stored  throughout  with  many  goodly  rivers,  replenished 
with  all  sorts  of  fish  abundantly  ; sprinkled  with  many  very  sweet 
islands  and  goodly  lakes,  like  little  inland  seas,  that  will  carry  even 
shippes  upon  their  waters ; adorned  with  goodly  woods ; also  filled  with 
good  ports  and  havens ; besides  the  soyle  itself  most  fertile,  fit  to  yield 
all  kind  of  fruit  that  shall  be  committed  thereto.  And  lastly,  the 
climate  most  mild  and  temperate. 

Two  hundred  and  fifty  years  ago  Sir  John  Davies,  an- 
other eminent  Englishman,  wrote  about  Ireland  as  follows  : 

I have  visited  all  the  provinces  of  that  kingdom  in  sundry  journeys 
and  circuits,  wherein  I have  observed  the  good  temperature  of  the  air, 
the  fruitfulness  of  the  soil,  the  pleasant  and  commodious  seats  for 
habitations,  the  safe  and  large  ports  and  havens  lying  open  for  traffic 
into  all  the  west  parts  of  the  world;  the  long  inlets  of  many  navigable 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


761 


rivers,  and  so  many  great  lakes  and  fresh  ponds  within  the  land,  as  the 
like  are  not  to  be  seen  in  any  part  of  Europe;  the  rich  fishings  and 
wild  fowl  of  all  kinds ; and  lastly,  the  bodies  and  minds  of  the  people 
endued  with  extraordinary  abilities  by  nature. 

In  Brown’s  “ Essays  on  Trade,”  published  in  London  in 
the  year  1728,  this  is  the  report  on  Ireland : 

Ireland  is,  in  respect  of  its  situation,  the  number  of  its  commodious 
harbors,  and  the  natural  wealth  which  it  produces,  the  fittest  island  to 
acquire  wealth  of  any  in  the  European  seas ; for  as  by  its  situation  it 
lies  the  most  commodious  for  the  West  Indies,  Spain,  and  the  Northern 
and  Eastern  countries,  so  it  is  not  only  supplied  by  nature  with  all  the 
necessaries  of  life,  but  can  over  and  above  export  large  quantities  to 
foreign  countries,  insomuch  that,  had  it  been  mistress  of  its  trade,  no 
nation  in  Europe  of  its  extent  could  in  an  equal  number  of  years 
acquire  greater  wealth. 

“ Ireland,”  says  Newenham,  writing  seventy  years  ago 
on  industrial  topics,  “greatly  surpasses  her  sister  coun- 
try, England,  in  the  aggregate  of  the  endowments  of  na- 
ture  England,  abounding  in  wealth  beyond  any 

other  country  in  Europe,  cannot  boast  of  one  natural  ad- 
vantage which  Ireland  does  not  possess  in  a superior 
degree.” 

Continuing,  Mr.  O’Reilly  said : All  this  has  been  said 
about  a country  that  is  so  poverty-stricken  and  so  unhappy 
that  the  like  of  it  is  not  seen  in  any  part  of  the  world.  I 
sent  reporters  to  four  houses  in  Boston  a short  time  ago 
to  ask  how  much  money  they  had  sold  on  Ireland  during 
the  month  of  December,  and  from  the  first  of  December  to 
the  twentieth,  those  four  houses  had  sold  over  $100,000,  in 
sums  averaging  $35.  Now,  in  three  weeks,  four  houses  in 
one  city  sold  that  much  ; and  I can  assure  you  that  there 
is  not  a city  in  the  United  States,  not  a town,  nor  hamlet, 
whence  that  drain  is  not  constantly  going  away  to  Ireland. 
It  is  going  from  the  mills,  from  the  mines,  from  the  farms, 
from  the  shops,  from  the  servant  girls.  The  only  advan- 
tage from  that  terrible  loss, — a loss  which  must  reach 
almost  $50,000,000  a year,  which  is  the  lowest  computation 
you  can  put  on  it, — the  only  value  the  republic  has  in 


762 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


return  is  in  the  devoted  and  affectionate  natures  that  could 
spare  from  their  earnings  so  much  for  their  poor  relatives 
in  Ireland — for  they  sent  it  to  save  their  people  from  evic- 
tion and  starvation  ; not  to  make  them  happy  and  com- 
fortable, but  to  pay  the  rent  to  the  English  aristocrats,  for 
whom  England  has  legislated.  The  landlords  have  a mort- 
gage on  the  Irish  in  America  through  their  affections. 

This  question  has  never  been  between  the  people  of  the 
two  countries,  but  always  between  the  Irish  people  and  the 
English  aristocrat,  the  idle  profligate  fellow  who  owns  the 
land  and  stands  between  the  two  peoples.  For  him  and  by 
him  has  all  the  legislation  for  Ireland  been  made,  and  for 
England,  too.  When  the  people  of  the  two  countries  come 
to  settle  the  question  between  them,  depend  on  it,  they  will 
find  a solution.  It  was  only  last  year  for  the  first  time  in 
England  that  the  common  people  became  a factor  in  poli- 
tics, when  two  millions  of  workingmen  were  admitted  to 
the  franchise  ; and  it  was  only  by  their  exercise  of  that 
power  that  the  Tory  Government  was  prevented  from  put- 
ting another  Coercion  Act  in  force  in  Ireland,  when  Lord 
Salisbury  threatened  four  weeks  ago  to  introduce  another 
Coercion  Act  for  a country  which  was  in  peace,  without 
any  reason  whatever  but  the  will  of  the  landlord  class. 
The  only  issue  for  Ireland,  if  the  Tories  had  remained  in 
power  and  Lord  Salisbury  had  carried  out  his  intention, 
would  have  been  rebellion.  Unquestionably,  Ireland  would 
have  been  driven  into  another  hopeless  rebellion,  the  mean- 
ing of  which  it  would  have  been  hard  to  explain  to  the 
outer  world. 

I believe  that  when  the  two  peoples  can  settle  this  ques- 
tion between  themselves,  they  are  going  to  work  out  the 
morality  of  their  relations,  and  that  the  Irish  people  have 
nothing  to  fear,  but  everything  to  hope,  from  the  common 
people  of  Great  Britain.  It  is  not  the  sea,  but  the  separated 
pool  that  rots,  and  so  it  is  not  the  common  people,  but  the 
separated  class  of  humanity  that  rots — the  aristocrat,  the 
idle  man,  the  man  on  horseback,  the  fellow  that  has  ruled 
Europe  for  centuries. 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES.  763 

Now,  let  me  go  into  detail  over  that  statement  as  to  the 
industrial  possibilities  of  Ireland. 

The  most  important  natural  advantages  which  nations 
enjoy  are : fertility  of  soil,  salubrity  of  climate,  capacious 
harbors  fitted  for  external  commerce,  advantageous  inter- 
section of  internal  trade  by  rivers,  valuable  mines  and 
minerals,  and  productive  fisheries.  “ Those  advantages,” 
says  Matthew  Carey,  “ have  been  so  liberally  bestowed  on 
Ireland  by  a bounteous  heaven,  that  nothing  but  the  most 
horrible  and  blighting  policy  could  have  prevented  her 
from  enjoying  as  high  a degree  of  happiness  as  ever  fell  to 
the  lot  of  any  nation.” 

With  respect  of  soil,  Ireland  is  blest  in  the  highest  de- 
gree. Arthur  Young,  an  English  traveler,  who  devoted 
his  life  to  agricultural  inquiries  and  investigations,  says 
that  “ natural  fertility,  acre  for  acre,  over  the  two  king- 
doms, is  certainly  in  favor  of  Ireland.  Labor  and  skill  are 
the  only  things  necessary  to  produce  all  over  the  country. 
The  soil  needs  no  fertilizer  that  is  not  at  the  hands  of  the 
farmer  in  all  the  counties.  In  many  extensive  parts  of  the 
country  fertilizers  applied  to  the  soil  kill  the  crops,  for  the 
soil  will  only  bear  a certain  amount  of  nutrition,  and 
beyond  that  it  refuses  to  grow  unless  left  fallow  for  a 
year.” 

“ To  judge  of  Ireland  by  the  conversation  one  some- 
times hears  in  England,”  says  Arthur  Young,  “ it  would  be 
supposed  that  one  half  of  it  was  covered  with  bogs  and  the 
other  with  mountains.” 

Newenham  says : 

A vast  proportion  of  the  unreclaimed  land  of  other  countries  is 
almost  utterly  unproductive,  or  completely  sterile ; a vast  proportion  of 
the  unreclaimed  land  of  Ireland  is  undoubtedly  the  contrary.  In  other 
countries  the  operation  of  reclaiming  requires  considerable  skill,  and 
in  most  instances  is  attended  with  immense . expense.  In  Ireland, 
where  nature  is  rather  to  be  assisted  than  overcome,  it  requires  but 
little  skill ; and  the  attendant  expense,  if  viewed  in  conjunction  with 
the  future  permanent  profit,  is  scarcely  sufficient  to  deter  the  most 
timid  speculator.  In  most  other  countries  the  natural  means  of  fertil- 
izing such  land,  as  has  been  prepared  by  any  expensive  process  for  the 


764 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


plow,  are  extremely  scanty;  in  Ireland  they  are  almost  everywhere 
found  in  the  greatest  abundance  and  perfection. 

One  striking  advantage  Ireland  possesses,  probably  in  a 
degree  beyond  any  other  country.  The  rocks  and  mount- 
ains, which  elsewhere  are  generally  bare  or  covered  only 
with  useless  weeds  or  wild  shrubs,  are  in  Ireland  clothed 
with  luxuriant  verdure. 

In  no  part  of  the  bounties  of  nature  as  regards  soil  is  Ire- 
land more  fortunate  than  in  the  superabundance  of  manures 
of  almost  every  kind  and  of  the  very  best  quality. 

“ In  most  of  the  mountainous  districts  of  Ireland,”  Sir 
Edward  Newenham,  a great  statistical  and  practical 
authority,  says,  “ 5000  acres  will  be  found  to  yield  more 
and  better  food  for  the  cattle  than  100,000  in  many  parts 
of  Scotland  and  Wales.  The  Irish  mountains  are  entirely 
different  from  those  of  the  countries  just  mentioned. 
Herbage  of  some  sort  or  other  grows  on  the  very  summits 
of  some  of  the  loftiest  in  Ireland  ; but  in  Scotland,  and  for 
the  most  part  in  Wales,  cattle  stray  from  their  pasture  as 
they  ascend  the  mountain’s  brow.  The  peculiar  tendency 
of  the  Irish  soil  to  grass  is  such  that  the  mountainous  land 
yields  good  sustenance  to  prodigious  droves  of  young 
cattle.” 

In  those  parts  of  England,  Scotland,  or  Wales  which  are 
remote  from  large  towns  the  cultivation  of  a farm,  owing 
to  deficiency  of  good  natural  manures,  must,  in  general,  be 
proportionate  to  the  stock  of  cattle  kept  thereon.  But  in 
Ireland,  where  such  manures  almost  everywhere  abound, 
the  dung  of  cattle  is  not  indispensably  requisite  to  the 
progress  of  agriculture,  and  accordingly  much  less  atten- 
tion is  paid  to  its  collection  than  is  observable  in  other 
countries.  “Labor  and  skill  alone,”  says  Ne^venham, 
“ will  render  the  lands  of  Ireland  fertile  in  the  ex- 
treme.” 

With  the  exception  of  the  counties  of  Wexford,  Wick- 
low, Tyrone,  and  Antrim,  limestone  is  found  in  the  great- 
est abundance  in  every  county  of  Ireland,  as  is  also,  with 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


765 


the  exception  of  a few  counties,  that  incomparable  manure 
—limestone  gravel.  White,  gray,  and  blue  marls  of  the 
best  quality,  are  likewise  found  in  most  of  the  counties, 
and  compensate  in  some  of  them,  especially  in  Wexford, 
for  a deficiency  of  lime. 

4 4 The  seacoasts,  likewise,  from  which,  by  the  way,  no 
part  of  Ireland  is  at  greater  distance  than  fifty  miles, 
furnish  an  inexhaustible  supply  of  manures.  Coral  sand,  a 
manure  of  superior  value,  is  found  on  the  south  coast  in 
Baltimore  Bay,  on  the  southwest  coast  in  Bantry  Bay,  on 
the  west  coast  in  Tralee  Bay,  Clew  Bay,  Roundstone  Bay, 
Kilkerran  Harbor,  and  Galway  Bay  ; on  the  north  coast  in 
Mulroy  Harbor  ; on  the  east  coast  of  Brayhead,  in  the 
county  of  Wicklow,  and  in  other  places.  Shelly  sand, 
which  nearly  equals  the  coral  in  effect,  is  found  on  the 
southwest  coast  in  Dunmanus  Bay  ; on  the  east  coast  near 
Birr  Island,  in  Red  Bay,  and  in  many  other  parts  of  the 
same  coast.  Sea  weeds,  sea  sand  of  different  colors,  and 
sea  ooze,  are  found  in  abundance  all  round  the  coast ; and, 
except  the  last,  which  has  been  lately  found  to  be  very 
good  manure,  are  everywhere  used  with  excellent  effect 
by  the  farmers  who  live  within  five  or  six  miles  of  the 
coast.” — Newenham,  44  View  of  the  Natural,  Political,  and 
Commercial  Circumstances  of  Ireland.” 

The  climate  of  Ireland  is  remarkable  for  its  mildness, 
particularly  in  the  southern  province,  where  the  fields 
generally  afford  pasturage  for  the  cattle  during  the  winter. 
They  are  rarely  housed.  A very  great  proportion  of  the 
fat  cattle  sent  to  Waterford,  Limerick,  and  Cork,  are  never 
housed.  The  dairy  cows  in  the  province  of  Munster  are 
never,  through  downright  necessity,  housed.  The  severity 
of  winter  in  most  other  countries  of  so  high  a latitude,  is 
almost  altogether  unknown  in  Ireland.  Snows  and  ice  to 
any  considerable  extent  are  rarely  experienced. 

In  respect  of  mildness  and  equability,  qualities  of  a very 
advantageous  nature,  the  climate  of  Ireland  is  surpassed 
by  very  few,  if  by  any  other  in  Europe. 

Ireland  is  highly  endowed  by  nature  with  those  very 


766 


JOHN  BOYLE  o’KEILLY. 


important  means  of  promoting  national  wealth,  harbors, 
rivers,  and  lakes.  The  coast  is  so  copiously  indented 
with  harbors,  that  they  lie  almost  universally  within  a few 
miles  of  each  other. 

Taking  one  district  with  another,  there  is  a harbor,  or 
safe  anchorage  place,  to  about  every  150  square  miles,  or 
every  96,000  acres. 

They  are,  with  scarcely  an  exception,  superior  to  those 
of  England. 

“ There  are  not  twenty  harbors  in  England  and  Wales,” 
says  Newenham,  “ which  can  be  classed  with  forty  of  the 
best  in  Ireland  ; nor,  with  perhaps  the  single  exception  of 
Milford  Haven,  which  is  about  seven  miles  long  and  one 
broad,  with  from  four  to  fourteen  fathoms  on  a bottom  of 
mud,  is  there  one  in  the  former,  which  can,  in  almost  any 
respect,  be  compared  with  the  best  ten  in  the  latter ; and 
if  the  safe  anchoring  places  be  added  to  the  harbors  of 
each  country,  Ireland  will  rank  above  England,  not  only 
in  capaciousness,  safety,  and  proportionate  number  of 
harbors,  but  likewise  in  the  general  number  of  places  for 
the  accommodation  of  shipping.”  There  are  one  hundred 
and  thirty-six  safe  and  deep  harbors  in  the  island,  a num- 
ber not  possessed  by  any  other  country. 

The  rivers  are  uncommonly  numerous.  So  numerous 
are  the  rivers  of  Ireland,  in  proportion  to  its  size,  and  so 
abundant  the  supply  of  water,  that  almost  every  parish 
might  enjoy  the  benefits  of  internal  navigation,  at  an 
inconsiderable  national  expense.  Very  few  parts  of  Ire 
land,  comparatively  speaking,  would  be  found  ineligible 
for  the  establishment  of  manufactures  through  a deficiency 
of  water,  or  the  want  of  water-carriage.  Of  248  mills  for 
grinding  corn,  erected  in  Ireland  between  the  years  1758 
and  1790,  every  one,  as  Newenham  relates,  was  turned  by 
water.  Windmills  are  in  no  country  less  common,  or  less 
necessary,  than  in  Ireland. 

The  country  was  surveyed  under  the  Irish  Parliament, 
with  a view  to  internal  improvement  by  canals,  and  thirty- 
two  rivers  were  found  capable  of  being  rendered  navigable, 


767 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 

whereof  the  united  lengths,  in  addition  to  that  of  the 
Shannon  and  those  of  the  projected  canals,  exceed  one 
thousand  miles.  Had  the  proposed  works  been  carried 
into  effect,  10,000  square  miles,  or  6,400,000  acres,  would,  at 
the  furthest,  have  been  within  five  miles  of  some  navigable 
river  or  canal.  And  if  to  this  be  added  the  sinuous  line  of 
the  Irish  coast,  comprising  1737  miles,  it  will  be  seen  that 
18,685  square  miles,  or  11,958,400  acres,  which  constitute 
almost  two  third  parts  of  the  area  of  Ireland,  would  have 
lain  within  five  miles  of  the  sea,  river,  or  canal ; and  fifteen 
million  dollars,  faithfully  and  skillfully  expended,  would 
probably  be  more  than  sufficient  for  the  purpose. 

The  fisheries  of  cod,  and  ling,  and  hake,  and  mack- 
erel, and  herring,  are  probably  the  richest  in  the  worfd ; 
yet  to-day  the  fishermen  of  the  western  coast  are  kept 
from  death  by  starvation  by  American  charitable  sub- 
scriptions. 

With  regard  to  mines  and  minerals,  this  sentence  from 
Mathew  Carey,  grandfather  of  Henry  Carey  Baird,  of  Phila- 
delphia, will  suffice  : ‘ ‘ There  is  probably  not  a country  in 
the  world,  which,  for  its  extent,  is  one  half  so  abundantly 
supplied  with  the  most  precious  minerals  and  fossils  as 
Ireland.” 

In  Tyrone,  Waterford,  Cork,  Down,  Antrim,  and 
throughout  Connaught,  says  an  eminent  British  authority, 
Mr.  T.  F.  Henderson,  writing  a few  years  ago,  “are  im- 
mense stores  of  iron  that  remain  unutilized.”  The  same 
writer  says,  that  from  what  can  be  seen,  Ireland  has  at 
least  180,000,000  tons  of  available  coal,  from  which  she 
raises  yearly  only  130,000  tons.  Yet  she  imports  over 
2,000,000  tons  yearly  from  England. 

Ireland  has  3,000,000  acres  of  bog-land,  which  supplies 
an  enormous  quantity  of  admirable  fuel.  The  average 
depth  of  peat  on  this  is  twenty-five  feet— in  some  cases 
over  forty  feet. 

The  following  summary  of  Irish  mineral  treasures  is 
made  from  official  and  other  surveys  and  reports.  The 
figures  prefixed  to  the  different  minerals  and  fossils  denote. 


768  JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 

tlie  number  of  counties  in  which  they  have  been  dis- 
covered : 


2 Amethysts 

16  Lead 

1 Antimony 

2 Manganese 

15  Coal 

19  Marble 

1 Cobalt 

15  Ochres 

17  Copper 

2 Pearls 

1 Chalcedony 

4 Pebbles 

8 Crystals 

2 Petrifactions 

9 Clays  of  various  sorts 

1 Porphyry 

5 Fuller’s  earth 

1 Silicious  sand 

1 Gold 

3 Silver 

2 Garnites  (decayed  granite  used  in 

6 Slate 

porcelain) 

1 Soapstone 

7 Granite 

1 Spars 

1 Gypsum 

2 Sulphur 

19  Iron 

2 Talc 

2 Jasper 

Ninety  years  ago,  Mr.  Lawson,  an  English  miner,  stated 
in  evidence  before  the  Irish  House  of  Commons  that  the 
iron-stone  at  Arigna  lay  in  beds  of  from  three  to  twelve 
fathoms  deep,  and  that  it  could  be  raised  for  two  shillings 
and  sixpence  a ton,  which  was  five  shillings  cheaper  than 
in  Cumberland ; that  the  coal  in  the  neighborhood  was 
better  than  any  in  England,  and  could  be  raised  for  three 
shillings  and  sixpence  a ton,  and  that  it  extended  six 
miles  in  length  and  five  in  breadth.  He  also  stated  that 
fire-brick  clay  and  freestone  of  the  best  qualities  were  in 
the  neighborhood,  and  that  a bed  of  potters’  clay  extended 
there  two  miles  in  length  and  one  in  breadth.  Mr.  Clark, 
on  the  same  occasion,  declared  that  the  iron  ore  was  inex- 
haustible. And  a distinguished  Irish  authority  on  minera- 
logical  subjects,  Mr.  Kirwan,  affirmed  that  the  Arigna  iron 
was  better  than  any  iron  made  from  any  species  of  single 
ore  in  England. 

There  is  not  a pound  of  iron  dug  out  of  the  earth  in 
Arigna,  and  there  never  will  be  till  Ireland  controls  her 
own  resources  and  can  protect  them  by  a proper  tariff  till 
they  are  in  full  productiveness. 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES.  ?69 

As  to  water-power — Sir  Richard  Kane,  of  the  Royal 
Dublin  Society,  and  other  eminent  scientific  bodies,  sum- 
marizes the  surveys  and  reports : 

The  water  from  the  rivers  of  Ireland  has  an  average  fall  of  129 
yards.  The  average  daily  fall  of  water  (falling  129  yards)  into  the  sea 
is  68,500,000  tons.  As  884  tons  falling  twenty-four  feet  in  twenty-four 
hours  is  a horse-power,  Ireland  has  an  available  water-power,  acting 
day  and  night,  from  January  to  December,  amounting  to  1,300,000 
horse-power — or,  reduced  to  300  working  days  of  twelve  hours  each, 
the  available  waterfall  for  industry  represents  over  3,000,000  horse- 
power. 

But  remember,  there  is  hardly  a wheel  turning  in  Ire- 
land. All  this  must  go  to  waste,  the  people  must  starve 
and  the  land  decay,  that  the  mill  owners  of  Lancashire  may 
thrive.  What  would  the  world  say  of  New  England,  had 
we  the  power,  were  we  to  suppress  all  manufacturing  and 
mining  industry  in  the  Southern  States?  New  England 
would  earn  the  execrations  of  the  country  and  the  world 
for  her  avaricious  selfishness. 

The  Parliament  of  Ireland  was  free  from  1782  to  1801 — 
and  during  this  short  period  the  country  advanced  like  a 
released  giant  in  every  field  of  industry  and  commerce. 
Then  the  selfishness  of  England  was  appealed  to  by  the 
landlords  and  the  traders,  the  former  leading  and  demand- 
ing that  Irish  industry  be  stopped,  suppressed,  murdered, 
by  act  of  Parliament.  The  landlords  wanted  no  resource 
for  their  rack-rented  tenants.  If  the  children  of  the  farmer 
could  go  into  the  mills  and  shops  to  work  and  earn,  the 
father  would  become  independent  of  the  landlord  and  agent. 

One  hundred  years  ago  the  Irish  found  that  they  could 
reclaim  their  bog  land  by  cutting  a ship  canal  through  the 
country  from  Galway  to  Dublin.  They  have  shown  since 
that  the  cost  would  be  more  than  repaid  by  the  increased 
price  of  the  land.  They  showed  that  they  could  save  sail- 
ing ships  seventy  hours  in  passing  to  and  from  Northern 
Europe,  and  save  them  from  the  dangers  of  the  Channel. 
They  showed  that  ships  sailing  from  the  West  of  Ireland 
obtained  an  offing  so  soon  that  they  often  reached  America 


770 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


before  vessels  leaving  England  on  the  same  day  had  beaten 
their  way  out  of  the  English  Channel.  But  the  merchants 
of  the  Southern  ports  of  England — Bristol,  Southampton, 
and  London — said  that  that  canal,  if  cut,  would  be  disas- 
trous to  them,  and  the  Parliament  refused  to  allow  it  to  be 
done.  Nine  times  the  Irish  people  have  tried  to  cut  that 
canal ; but  the  Irish  people  cannot  build  a wharf,  or  do 
anything  else  that  a civilized  community  usually  does  at  its 
own  option,  without  going  to  the  English  House  of  Com- 
mons for  permission  to  do  it. 

Benjamin  Franklin  had  visited  Ireland  and  was  well  in- 
formed of  her  commercial  wrongs.  Writing  to  Sir  Edward 
Newenham,  in  1779,  he  says  : 

I admire  the  spirit  with  which  I see  the  Irish  are  at  length  deter- 
mined to  claim  some  share  of  that  freedom  of  commerce,  which  is  the 
right  of  all  mankind;  but  which  they  have  been  so  long  deprived  of  by 
the  abominable  selfishness  of  their  fellow-subjects.  To  enjoy  all  the 
advantages  of  the  climate,  soil,  and  situation  in  which  God  and  Nature 
have  placed  us,  is  as  clear  a right  as  that  of  breathing,  and  can  never 
be  justly  taken  from  men  but  as  a punishment  for  some  atrocious  crime. 

In  the  last  century  Ireland  made  the  best  woolen  cloth 
in  Europe.  It  was  famous  in  every  market.  On  petition 
from  the  woolen-weavers  of  England,  the  English  Parlia- 
ment by  law  suppressed  and  killed  the  trade.  The  same 
law  was  enacted  against  the  leather  trade,  and  then  against 
the  trade  in  raw  hides.  Ireland,  having  the  best  sand,  ob- 
tained prominence  in  the  manufacture  of  glass.  English 
glass-makers  petitioned  Parliament,  and  an  Act  of  Parlia- 
ment was  passed  stopping  the  glass  trade. 

Every  means  of  industry  in  Ireland  has  been  killed  by 
Act  of  Parliament.  Every  means  of  industrial  development 
in  the  country  has  been  suppressed  by  Act  of  Parliament, 
or  by  the  possession  of  the  land  given  silently  into  the 
hands  of  English  capitalists.  “ Whenever  the  interests  of 
the  whole  Irish  nation  came  in  collision  even  with  those  of 
a single  city,  town,  or  corporation  of  England,”  says 
Mathew  Carey,  “ they  were  offered  up  a sacrifice  on  the 
altars  of  avarice  and  cupidity  without  remorse  and  without 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES.  771 

control.  In  every  case,  of  course,  when  the  great  national 
interests  on  both  sides  interfered,  those  of  the  Irish  were 
unfeelingly  devoted  to  destruction.  Throughout  the  whole 
career  of  the  connection,  there  has  scarcely  been  one  meas- 
ure adopted  on  the  part  of  England  toward  Ireland  that 
wears  the  semblance  of  a magnanimous  policy,  except  when 
forced  from  her  fears  during  the  American  revolution.” 

“The  object  of  that  species  of  policy  which  the  British 
government  had  exercised  toward  Ireland,”  said  Mr.  Pitt, 
in  his  speech  on  the  commercial  propositions  in  the  year 
1785,  “had  been  to  debar  her  from  the  enjoyment  and  use 
of  her  own  resources,  and  to  make  her  completely  subser- 
vient to  the  interest  and  opulence  of  Britain.” 

“In  reviewing  the  different  acts  of  the  Parliament  of 
Britain,”  says  Newenham,  “which  affected  the  trade  of 
Ireland,  it  will  be  found  that  the  prosperity  of  Ireland  was 
always  sacrificed  to  that  of  Britain  ; that,  with  the  excep- 
tion of  the  linen,  every  valuable  manufacture  established  in 
Ireland,  or  of  the  establishment  or  even  introduction 
whereof  there  was  any  prospect,  and  which  was  likely  to 
become  in  any  degree  a competitor,  either  in  the  home  or 
foreign  market,  with  a similar  one  undertaken  in  Britain, 
however  insignificant,  was  industriously  suppressed ; that 
the  Irish  were  invariably  obliged  to  give  the  preference  to 
the  produce  of  British  industry  ; that  downright  necessity 
alone  occasioned  the  admission  of  even  the  rude  produce  of 
Ireland  into  England ; that  the  acts  of  Parliament  which 
affected  to  aim  at  internal  improvements,  or  which  pur- 
ported to  be  for  the  advancement  of  any  lucrative  species 
of  enterprise,  were,  for  the  most  part,  merely  illusive.  . . . 
Whenever  an  infant  manufacture  in  Ireland  seemed  likely 
to  rival  a similar  one  in  Britain,  it  was  deliberately  killed 
by  a system  of  duties  in  favor  of  its  English  rival,  thus 
opening  a field  for  the  usual  efficacy  of  superior  Brit- 
ish capital  in  overpowering  the  unaided  industry  of 
Ireland.” 

One  of  the  earliest  measures  of  Lord  Strafford’s  admin- 
istration in  Ireland,  in  1636,  was  to  suppress  and  destroy 


772  JOHN  BOYLE  o’KEILLY. 

the  woolen  manufacture  for  the  express  benefit  of  the  Eng- 
lish trade. 

Lord  Strafford,  writing  to  his  Government  as  Viceroy 
of  Ireland,  in  1636,  says  : 

Wisdom  advises  to  keep  this  kingdom  of  Ireland  as  much  subordi- 
nate and  dependent  upon  England  as  is  possible,  and  holding  them  from 
the  manufacture  of  wool  {which,  unless  otherwise  directed , I shall  by 
all  means  discourage ),  and  then  enforcing  them  to  fetch  their  clothing 
from  thence,  and  to  take  their  salt  from  the  king  (being  that  which  pre- 
serves and  gives  value  to  all  their  native  staple  commodities),  hoic  can 
they  depart  from  us  without  nakedness  and  beggary  % 

In  another  letter  on  the  woolen  trade  of  Ireland,  Lord 
Strafford  says  : 

I had  and  so  should  still  discourage  it  all  I could,  unless  otherwise' 
directed  by  his  majesty  and  their  lordships,  in  regard  it  would  trench 
not  only  upon  the  clothings  of  England,  being  our  staple  commodity, 
so  as  if  they  should  manufacture  their  own  wools,  which  grew  to  very 
great  quantities,  we  should  not  only  lose  the  profit  we  made  now  by 
indraping  their  wools,  but  his  majesty  lose  extremely  by  his  customs, 
and  in  conclusion  it  might  be  feared,  they  would  beat  us  out  of  the 
trade  itself , by  underselling  us,  which  they  were  well  able  to  do. 

Says  Mathew  Carey  (“Vindicise  Hibernicse”) : 

Both  houses  of  the  British  Parliament  presented  addresses  to  King 
William,  praying  that  he  would  discountenance  the  woolen  manufac- 
ture of  Ireland,  as  interfering  with  the  interests  of  England — that  is  to 
say,  that  he  would  blast  the  fortunes  of  the  thousands  engaged  in  this 
manufacture,  and  equally  blast  the  prosperity  of  the  unfortunate  coun- 
try whose  main  source  of  wealth  he  was  to  cut  up  by  the  roots. 

On  the  9th  of  June,  1698,  the  English  Lords  presented 
an  address  to  King  William  III.,  stating,  “ That  the  grow- 
ing manufacture  of  cloth  in  Ireland,  both  by  the  cheapness 
of  all  sorts  of  necessaries  of  life,  and  goodness  of  materials 
for  making  all  manner  of  cloth,  doth  invite  his  subjects  of 
England  with  their  families  and  servants  to  leave  their  habi- 
tations to  settle  there,  to  the  increase  of  the  woolen  manu- 
facture in  Ireland,  which  makes  his  loyal  subjects  in  this 
kingdom  very  apprehensive,  that  the  further  growth  of  it 
may  greatly  prej  udice  the  said  manufacture  here ; and 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


773 


praying  that  his  majesty  would  be  pleased,  in  the  most 
public  and  effectual  way  that  may  be,  to  declare  to  all  his 
subjects  of  Ireland,  that  the  growth  and  increase  of  the 
woolen  manufacture  there  hath  long,  and  will  be  ever  looked 
upon  with  great  jealousy  by  all  his  subjects  of  this  king- 
dom.” 

On  the  30th  of  June,  1698,  the  English  Commons  pre- 
sented a similar  address ; and  his  majesty  was  pleased  to 
say,  in  answer,  “ Gentlemen,  I will  do  all  that  in  me  lies  to 
discourage  the  woolen  manufacture  in  Ireland.” 

Several  iniquitous  acts  were  immediately  passed  by  the 
British  Parliament,  prohibiting  the  exportation  of  wool, 
woolen  yarn,  or  woolen  goods,  to  any  part  of  the  world,  ex- 
cept to  Great  Britain,  on  pain  of  forfeiture  of  ship  and 
cargo,  in  addition  to  a penalty  of  £500  for  every  offense. 
One  of  these  acts  contained  a most  profligate  and  disgrace- 
ful clause,  that  an  acquittal  in  Ireland  should  not  operate 
as  a bar  to  a new  prosecution  in  England. 

By  an  act  passed  in  the  year  1695,  the  trade  to  the  Brit- 
ish colonies,  which  had  been  a source  of  great  national 
benefit,  was  interdicted  to  the  Irish.  They  were  prohibited 
from  importing  any  articles  the  growth  or  production  of 
those  colonies,  w ithout  their  first  toeing  landed , and  hav- 
ing  paid  duties  in  England , which  operated  exactly  as  a 
positive  prohibition  of  the  trade  altogether. 

The  Irish,  curbed  and  restricted  in  the  woolen  trade,  en- 
tered into  the  manufacture  of  silk.  The  French  Huguenots, 
driven  out  of  their  own  country,  went  to  Ireland,  where 
they  were  welcomed,  and  where  they  remained.  They 
brought  with  them  their  precious  knowledge  of  silk  weav- 
ing which  the  Irish  soon  learned,  and  in  which  they  soon 
excelled.  But  the  monopolizing  spirit  of  England  blasted 
this  industry  in  the  bud.  An  act  was  passed  in  1729  which 
exempted  the  silk  manufactures  of  England  from  duty  on 
importation  into  Ireland.  This  act  sealed  the  destruction 
of  the  Irish  manufacture.  Ireland  was  deluged  with  Eng- 
lish silks — their  manufactures  were  deprived  of  a market 
and  ruined,  and  their  workmen  reduced  to  penury. 


774 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


At  the  time  of  passing  the  act  which  exempted  from 
duty  the  silk  manufactures  of  Great  Britain,  there  were, 
according  to  the  evidence  given  before  the  Irish  Parliament, 
in  1784,  800  silk  looms  at  work  in  Ireland.  Thirty-six  years 
after  there  were  but  fifty. 

The  Irish  having  carried  on  the  brewing  of  beer,  ale, 
and  porter,  and  the  manufacture  of  glass,  to  a great  extent, 
the  hostility  and  jealousy  of  the  English  brewers  and  glass 
manufacturers  were  excited,  and  two  acts  were  passed 
which  laid  the  brewery  and  glass  manufactory  prostrate. 
By  one  (7  G.  II.  c.  19),  all  hops  landed  in  Ireland,  except 
British,  were  directed  to  be  burned,  and  a duty  of  three 
pence  per  pound,  over  and  above  all  other  duties,  customs, 
and  subsidies,  was  imposed  on  the  exportation  of  the 
article  from  Great  Britain.  By  the  other  iniquitous  act, 
the  importation  into  Ireland  of  glass  from  any  place  other 
than  Britain,  and  the  exportation  of  the  article  from  Ire- 
land to  any  place  whatsoever,  were  prohibited,  under 
penalty  of  forfeiture  of  ship  and  cargo,  and  a heavy  fine 
per  pound  for  all  the  glass  found  on  board.  (19  G.  II.  c.  12.) 

Among  all  the  detestable  means  by  which  the  pros- 
perity and  happiness  of  Ireland  were  sacrificed  to  English 
cupidity,  one  of  the  most  shocking  remains  to  be  told.  In 
all  the  former  cases,  the  sacrifice  was  to  promote  the  inter- 
ests of  Great  Britain  at  large,  or  at  least  of  considerable 
bodies  of  men.  In  the  present,  they  were  offered  up  to 
aggrandize  half  a dozen  or  a dozen  persons.  During  the 
American  revolutionary  war  and  the  Napoleonic  wars, 
under  pretense  of  preventing  the  enemies  of  Great  Britain 
from  procuring  supplies  of  provisions  for  their  fleets  an" 
armies,  Irish  exportation  was  prohibited  for  the  benefit  of 
the  British  contractors,  who  were  thereby  enabled  to  pur- 
chase at  half  the  usual  prices.  This  sinister  operation 
spread  destruction  tlioughout  the  South  of  Ireland,  of 
which  the  main  dependence  has  always  been  the  sale  of 
provisions. 

So  dreadful  was  the  result  of  this  atrocious  law,  that 
Mathew  Carey,  writing  a few  years  later,  says  ; 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


775 


Had  the  British  Parliament  decimated  the  whole  nation,  and 
imposed  a poll  tax  of  five  guineas  per  head  on  the  survivors,  they 
would  not  have  produced  the  tenth  part  of  the  misery  caused  by  this 
odious  and  iniquitous  system,  which  paralyzed  the  industry  and  ener- 
gies of  the  Irish,  and  consigned  so  large  a portion  of  them  to  idleness, 
misery,  and  wretchedness. 

The  coming  question  in  Ireland — the  landlord  system — 
is  purely  commercial  and  industrial.  The  absentee  land- 
lord wants  no  alternative  but  one — pay  the  rack-rent  or 
emigrate.  Men  like  Hartington,  a Liberal  in  name  but  a 
Whig  at  heart,  a man  of  hereditary  possession  and  no 
hereditary  production,  will  be  joined  by  selfish  middlemen 
like  Chamberlain ; and  depend  on  it,  they  will  appeal  to 
the  worst  passions  and  prejudices  and  the  worst  interests 
of  the  middle  class  of  trading  Englishmen. 

There  are  about  30,000  owners  of  land  in  Ireland.  They 
own  the  whole  country.  They  are  largely  Englishmen  who 
live  out  of  Ireland  and  have  never  seen  it.  Great  numbers 
of  them  obtained  possession  by  confiscation.  In  the 
County  of  Derry,  fourteen  London  companies,  such  as  the 
Vintners,  Drysalters,  Haberdashers,  etc.,  obtained  from 
King  James  most  of  the  land  of  the  county.  These  com- 
panies of  London  traders  have  never  seen  the  land  ; they 
have  kept  their  agents  there,  though,  to  raise  the  rents, 
generation  after  generation,  as  the  poor  people  reclaimed 
the  soil  from  moor  and  mountain.  In  two  centuries  the 
rental  has  been  raised  from  a few  hundred  pounds  a year 
to  over  a hundred  thousand  pounds  a year,  the  people 
doing  all  the  improvement  and  losing  in  proportion  to  their 
labor,  and  the  avaricious  corporations  in  London  drawing 
all  the  profits. 

A vast  injury  has  been  done  to  Ireland  by  the  system- 
atic English  misrepresentation  of  her  ancient  history  and 
illustrious  development  in  learning,  law,\  music,  and  archi- 
tecture. The  world  has  been  persistently  informed  that 
Ireland’s  claims  to  native  distinction  were  dreams,  myths, 
fairy  stories.  The  scholars  of  England  have  refused  to 
admit  even  the  philological  treasures  of  the  Gaelic  lan- 


776 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


guage.  Gaelic  literature,  represented  by  innumerable 
precious  manuscripts  ranging  over  tlie  last  thousand  years, 
has  been  ignored  and  shelved,  where  it  could  not  be  de- 
stroyed. No  provision  has  ever  been  made  for  the  transla- 
tion of  these  estimable  literary  works. 

The  ancient  Brehon  code  of  laws,  one  of  the  completest 
codifications  in  existence,  has  been  rejected,  underrated, 
and  left  untranslated.  Everything  has  been  done  to  keep 
Ireland  out  of  the  respect  and  serious  consideration  of  the 
world. 

An  incalculable  injury  has  been  done  to  Ireland  by  the 
wicked  abolition  of  the  native  language,  to  teach  which  was 
made  a felony  in  1704— a law  which  continued  in  full  force 
for  a century.  The  great  German  scholar,  F.  Sclilegel,  says  : 

A nation  which  allows  her  language  to  go  to  ruin  is  parting  with  the 
best  half  of  her  intellectual  independence,  and  testifies  her  willingness 
to  cease  to  exist. 

Ireland  did  not  willingly  allow,  but  her  people  were 
compelled  to  witness  in  agony  the  ruin  of  their  grand  old 
language  by  the  selfish  cruelty  of  the  foreign  tyranny. 

Bishop  Nulty,  of  Meath,  two  years  ago,  arraigned  the 
English  Government  for  its  wicked  policy  of  keeping  the 
Irish  peasant  and  laboring  classes  unprepared  for  their 
work  in  life.  He  showed  that,  by  deliberate  legislation, 
the  English  government  has  not  only  killed  Irish  commerce 
and  industry,  but  has  planned  their  permanent  absence  by 
keeping  the  Irish  people  ignorant  of  all  technical  knowl- 
edge. Throughout  Great  Britain,  technical  schools  and 
schools  of  design  are  numerous  ; they  are  unknown  in  Ire- 
land, except  in  one  or  two  instances,  where  established  by 
special  endowment. 

Twelve  years  ago,  in  “ A Plea  for  the  Home  Government 
of  Ireland,”  J.  G.  MacCarthy  wrote: 

In  nearly  every  continental  country,  as  Lord  Derby  lately  pointed 
out,  the  State  has  instituted,  endowed,  and  actively  superintends  a 
system  of  technical  education  by  which  workmen  are  gratuitously 
taught  drawing,  modeling,  carving,  chemistry,  and  mechanics;  and  to 
this  State  aid  his  lordship  attributes  the  growing  superiority  of  Con- 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


777 


tinental  manufactories.  In  France  there  is  a school  of  technical  art  in 
every  important  town.  In  Germany  there  is  a complete  system  of 
technical  training  from  the  Realschulen  of  the  villages  to  the  Polytech- 
nic Universities  of  Berlin  and  Stuttgardt.  In  West  Flanders  the  State 
instructs  yearly  2000  boys  in  weaving.  Geneva  has  immense  schools 
for  teaching  watchmaking.  Thrifty,  self-governed  little  Zurich  main- 
tains the  best  technical  university  in  the  world,  in  which  everything 
that  is  most  valuable  in  the  arts  and  manufactures  of  other  countries  is 
taught  by  the  most  competent  teachers  anywhere  procurable,  in  the 
best  manner  that  experience  can  suggest,  and  with  all  the  aid  that  the 
best  material  appliances  can  afford.  Steady,  self -governed  W urtem- 
berg  has  provided  within  the  last  twenty  years  for  the  technical 
instruction  of  the  population  (not  so  large  as  that  of  Munster)  one 
university,  two  colleges  of  the  first  rank,  and  more  than  a hundred 
high  trade-schools,  and  has  thus  conquered  a place  in  the  front  rank  of 
the  manufacturing  industry  of  the  world.  Is  there  any  country  more 
in  need  of  technical  instruction  than  Ireland  ? Are  there  any  people 
possessing  more  aptitude  for  it,  more  quickness  of  intelligence,  more 
fineness  of  touch,  more  sureness  of  hand,  than  our  people  ? Yet  in 
Ireland  technical  instruction  is  almost  unknown. 

In  the  March  number  of  the  Nineteenth  Century  (1886), 
Mr.  Robert  Giffen,  the  leading  English  statist,  director  of 
the  British  Board  of  Trade,  writing  “ On  the  Value  of  Ire- 
land to  England,”  shows  how  Ireland  is  yearly  robbed  of 
millions  of  pounds  sterling  by  disproportionate  taxation. 
To  the  following  figures,  add  the  enormous  drain  of  rent 
from  Ireland  (nearly  a hundred  million  dollars  yearly), 
and  the  meaning  of  English  rule  in  Ireland  becomes  clear. 
Mr.  Giffen  says : 

Ireland,  while  contributing  only  about  a twentieth  part  of  the 
United  Kingdom  in  resources,  nevertheless  pays  a tenth  or  eleventh 
of  the  taxes.  Ireland  ought  to  pay  £3,500,000,  and  it  pays  nearly 
£7,000,000.  To  the  extent  of  the  difference  Great  Britain  is  better  off 
in  the  partnership  than  could  have  been  expected  beforehand 

If  Ireland  only  paid  a fair  contribution  for  Imperial  pur- 
poses, we  should  be  out  of  pocket  by  this  £3,200,000  more,  or  nearly 
£6,000,000 

I desire  likewise  to  call  special  attention  to  the  fact,  which  has  come 
out  incidentally,  that  Ireland  is  overtaxed  in  comparison  with  Great 
Britain.  It  contributes  twice  its  proper  share,  if  not  more,  to  the 
Imperial  Exchequer.  At  present  nearly  the  whole  taxable  income  of 
the  Irish  people  is,  in  fact,  absorbed  by  the  State.  The  taxable  income 


778 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 

being  about  £15,000,000  only,  the  Imperial  government  takes  nearly 
£7,000,000,  and  the  local  taxes  are  over  £3,000,000  more,  or  about 
£10,000,000  in  all.  So  large  a proportion  of  taxation  to  taxable  income 
would  be  a serious  fact  for  any  country,  and  there  can  be  little  accu- 
mulation (saving)  in  Ireland  under  such  conditions. 

And  this  wholesale  misgovernment  of  Ireland,  no  matter 
what  may  be  said  of  improving  with  time,  does  not  im- 
prove— but  grows  worse  and  worse.  Taxation  increases  as 
population  declines. 

Sir  Joseph  McKenna,  M.P.,  proves  in  his  pamphlet, 

4 ‘Imperial  Taxation  of  Ireland,”  that  in  the  twenty  years 
from  1851,  taxation  in  Ireland  increased  75  per  cent,  on  a 
waning  population— that  is  to  say,  from  £4,000,000  in  1851 
to  £7,086,593  in  1871. 

England  grants  Home  Rule  to  the  Australias,  Canada, 
New  Zealand,  and  the  Isle  of  Man.  These  countries  are  all 
prosperous,  peaceable,  and  loyal.  She  refuses  Home  Rule 
only  to  two  dependencies — India  and  Ireland  ; and  these 
countries  are  in  chronic  misery  and  rebellion. 

Nearly  a century  ago  Grattan  said : “ Control  over  local 
affairs  is  the  very  essence  of  liberty.” 

England  is  the  first  nation  to  admit  and  preach  this  doc- 
trine for  all  nations  except  Ireland.  Sydney  Smith  de- 
clared : “The  moment  Ireland  was  mentioned,  English 
politicians  bade  adieu  to  common  sense,  and  acted  with  the 
barbarity  of  tyrants  and  the  fatuity  of  idiots.”  If  Ireland 
can  secure  the  sympathy  of  the  American  population  in  her 
Home  Rule  struggle,  she  will  succeed — for  England’s  future 
is  closely  related  to  our  great  English-speaking  Republic. 
American  sympathy  for  Ireland  may  mean  tremendous 
commercial  losses  for  England. 

If  the  Irish- American  people,  at  least  20,000,000  in  blood- 
kindred,  resolve  to  buy  no  English  goods,  to  “ boycott”  all 
English  importations  and  interests,  to  refuse  patronage  to 
English  steamship  lines  and  other  corporations,  and  to  sup- 
port American  manufacturers  at  the  expense  of  English, 
they  will  cause  a loss  to  England  greater  in  one  year  than 
Ireland’s  industrial  competition  would  cause  in  five  years. 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES.  779 

This  is  Ireland’s  weapon:  she  must  strike  England 
either  in  the  heart  or  the  pocket. 

A century  ago,  Burke  said  : “ Justice  is  only  to  be  had 
from  England  at  the  point  of  the  sword.”  Mr.  Gladstone, 
in  Midlothian,  stated  : “ England  never  concedes  anything 
to  Ireland  except  compelled  to  do  so  by  fear.”  Mr.  Cowan, 
M.P.  for  Newcastle,  says:  “We  have  tried  to  govern  Ire- 
land by  the  army,  by  the  church,  and  by  the  landlords  ; all 
these  agencies  have  failed,  and  brought  us  only  shame  and 
humiliation.  Let  us  try  to  rule  her  by  her  own  people.” 

Ireland  asks  for  the  moral  support  of  good  men  of  all 
nations  in  her  effort  to  secure  Home  Rule.  Surely  the 
Government  that  has  no  other  answer  to  give  to  an  indus- 
trious, moral  people,  living  in  so  rich  a land,  than  starva- 
tion or  emigration,  is  arraigned  and  condemned  in  the  sight 
of  God  and  man,  and  ought  to  be  wiped  out.  The  Govern- 
ment ought  to  be  taken  from  the  hands  of  the  cruel  and 
senseless  aristocracy  that  has  misruled  so  long,  and  passed 
into  the  hands  of  the  English  and  Irish  people  to  whom  it 
belongs. 


As  a sequel  to  the  above  address,  the  following  circular 
was  issued  by  Mr.  John  C.  Paige,  president  of  the  Beacon 
Society,  and  sent  by  him  to  all  the  members  of  the  society, 
who  responded  by  a generous  contribution  to  the  Irish 
Parliamentary  Fund : 

Boston,  March  12,  1886. 

Dear  Sir : At  the  last  meeting  of  the  Beacon  Society,  Mr.  John 
Boyle  O’Reilly  delivered  an  address  upon  “The  Commercial  and  In- 
dustrial Aspects  of  the  Irish  Question,”  and  all  who  had  the  privilege  of 
hearing  him  were  greatly  impressed  with  his  presentation  of  the  subject. 

Mr.  O’Reilly  is  greatly  interested  in  “The  $5  Irish  Parliamentary 
Fund,”  and  I have  requested  from  him  the  privilege  of  mailing  one  of 
the  inclosed  circulars  to  each  member  of  the  Beacon  Society,  and  in- 
viting their  attention  and  response  to  it. 

Kindly  mail  your  contribution  of  ($5)  five  dollars,  in  inclosed  en- 
velope, to  Mr.  O’Reilly,  accompanying  the  remittance  with  your  name 
and  address,  in  order  that  it  may  be  acknowledged. 

Yours  respectfully,  Jno.  C.  Paige, 

President  Beacon  Society. 


ADDRESS  ON  HENRY  GRATTAN. 


NATION  is  not  great  that  only  produces  illustrious 


men  of  letters.  True  greatness  is  roundly  developed. 
Not  only  students  must  come  from  the  fertile  fields,  but  men 
of  action,  men  of  military  and  scientific  genius,  men  of  vast 
commercial  minds.  A great  country  must  be  as  varied  in 
its  men  as  in  its  productions. 

We  now  come  to  a man  who  had  the.power  of  meeting 
one  of  those  great  opportunities  that  burst  only  once  in 
hundreds  of  years — a man  who  struck  the  life-chord  of  his 
country,  and  raised  it  from  the  position  of  a degraded 
dependency  into  that  of  a proud  nation. 

In  the  same  year  that  the  battle  of  Bunker  Hill  was 
fought,  Henry  Grattan,  twenty-seven  years  of  age,  the  son 
of  a Protestant  and  Tory  father  and  mother,  entered  the 
Irish  House  of  Commons,  which  was  then  and  had  been  for 
300  years,  since  the  passage  of  the  Poynings  act,  a tongue-tied 
and  handcuffed  body,  without  power  to  legislate  even  for 
the  Protestant  minority  that  elected  its  members.  The  only 
duty  of  the  Irish  Parliament  up  to  that  time  had  been,  as  an 
English  writer  had  said  100  years  before,  “ to  keep  the 
original  proprietors,  the  dispossessed  Celts,  from  reviving, 
and  ruling  the  country. 5 ’ 

But  the  selfishness  and  cruelty  of  the  English  had 
engendered  deep  hatred  in  the  hearts  of  Irishmen  of  all 
classes  and  creeds. 

In  no  country  on  the  earth  did  the  immortal  “ shot 
fired  at  Concord  ’ ’ echo  so  plainly  as  in  Ireland.  Mr.  Froude 
says  (English  in  Ireland,  vol.  ii.  p.  200)  that  “ the  fortunes 
of  Ireland  at  this  moment  were  connected  intimately  with 
the  phases  of  war  in  America.” 

Every  step  of  the  American  war  was  watched  with  cease- 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES.  781 

less  interest  in  Ireland.  The  swift  American  privateers 
made  the  harbors  of  Ireland  their  favored  recruiting  places. 
“ Their  crews,”  says  Froude,  u were  mixed;  Americans, 
French,  with  a large  proportion  of  Irish.”  To  keep  up  her 
foreign  wars  England  had  to  drain  Ireland  of  her  soldiers  ; 
and  Froude  says  : “ The  American  flag  was  seen  daily  flut- 
tering in  insolence  from  the  Irish  coast  anywhere  between 
Londonderry  and  Cork.”  It  was  out  of  Carrickfergus 
Harbor  that  Paul  Jones  sailed  in  1778  when  he  sunk  the 
English  man-of-war  Ranger  and  captured  half  a dozen 
English  ships  in  as  many  days. 

In  1777,  alarmed  at  the  defeat  of  Burgoyne  at  Saratoga, 
England  abandoned  the  pretension  of  taking  the  American 
colonies  and  sent  out  two  commissioners  (Lord  Carlyle  and 
Mr.  Eden)  to  offer  the  Americans  seats  in  the  English  House 
of  Commons  and  to  help  to  pay  the  cost  of  the  war.  But 
it  was  too  late.  France  had  stretched  out  her  hand  to  the 
struggling  Americans,  and  the  liberty  of  the  New  World 
was  saved.  In  1778,  France  consented  to  an  alliance  with 
the  American  States  on  condition  that  they  would  forever 
renounce  their  connection  with  England. 

America  then  replied  to  the  English  agents  that  if  their 
country  wished  to  negotiate  with  America,  she  must  with- 
draw her  fleets  and  armies,  and  recognize  American  inde- 
pendence. 

Then  England  declared  war  against  France.  Spain,  in 
the  hope  of  recovering  Gibraltar,  flung  herself  into  the 
struggle  against  England. 

Ireland  was  allowed  to  arm  the  Protestants  as  volun- 
teer forces,  and  as  soon  as  they  were  armed  they  resolved 
that  their  Catholic  fellow-countrymen  should  be  enfran- 
chised. There  were  only  8000  English  soldiers  on  the 
island  in  1779.  In  that  year  Paul  Jones,  sailing  out  of 
Ballenkellig  Bay,  on  the  west  coast  of  Ireland,  captured 
two  English  frigates  within  sight  of  the  people  on  the  cliffs 
and  within  sound  of  their  cheering. 

At  this  time  Henry  Grattan  had  been  four  years  in 
Parliament.  Almost  from  his  first  session  he  had  led  the 


782 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


opposition.  His  gravity  of  character,  his  nobility  of  soul, 
together  with  his  pre-eminent  wisdom  and  eloquence,  were 
recognized  and  admitted  by  friend  and  foe.  He  was  known 
and  respected  even  throughout  England.  He  had  proved 
the  sternness  of  his  purpose  by  publicly  condemning  and 
abandoning  the  Tory  principles  of  his  father,  and  suffering 
disinheritance  for  so  doing. 

In  1778  he  moved  an  address  to  the  King  of  England 
stating  that  the  condition  of  Ireland  was  no  longer  endur- 
able. But  he  found  that  the  selfish  Parliament  of  Ireland, 
drawn  from  a privileged  few,  was  not  ripe  yet  for  a heroic 
vote.  He  resolved  to  go  on  teaching.  He  waited,  using 
every  influence  to  strengthen  the  national  spirit.  The 
Protestant  Volunteers  swelled  to  80,000  men  ; and  they  and 
the  members  of  Parliament  caught  the  spirit  of  the  time. 
The  speeches  of  some  of  the  members  were  magnificent 
bursts  of  patriotism.  In  1779,  in  the  House,  some  one  said 
Ireland  was  at  peace. 

“ Talk  not  here  of  peace  ! ” said  Hussey  Burgh,  an  Irish- 
man, who  held  a high  office  under  the  English  crown. 
“ Ireland  is  not  at  peace.  It  is  smothered  war.  England 
has  sown  her  laws  like  dragon’s  teeth,  and  they  have 
sprung  up  as  armed  men.” 

These  words  produced  a tremendous  excitement.  From 
the  floor  they  rose  to  the  gallery  ; from  the  gallery  to  the 
street,  and  that  night  they  rung  through  the  city  and 
through  Ireland.  That  night,  too,  the  same  man,  Hussey 
Burgh,  rose  and  declared,  amidst  wild  cheers,  that  he  re- 
signed the  office  which  he  held  under  the  English  crown. 

“ The  gates  of  promotion  are  shut,”  exclaimed  Grattan, 
“ and  the  gates  of  glory  are  opened  ! ” 

This  was  the  state  of  Ireland  in  1780,  when  Sir  Henry 
Clinton  held  New  York,  and  Benedict  Arnold  betrayed  his 
country.  England,  hoping  for  victory  abroad,  would  offer 
no  concession  to  Ireland. 

When  the  Irish  Parliament  met  in  1782,  a demand  was 
made  for  a bill  to  give  the  franchise  to  the  Catholics  and  to 
abolish  the  Poynings  Act  which  made  all  Irish  legislation 


783 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 

originate  in  England.  The  volunteers,  elated  with  the 
news  of  the  defeat  of  the  English  at  Yorktown,  assembled 
at  Dungannon  and  adopted  these  resolutions. 

On  the  14th  of  March,  when  the  Irish  Parliament  ad- 
journed, it  was  felt  to  be  the  lull  before  the  lightning.  Be- 
fore separation,  Mr.  Grattan  moved  that  the  house  reassem- 
ble on  the  16th  of  April,  on  which  day,  he  said,  every  mem- 
ber was  to  be  in  his  place  who  loved  the  rights  of  Ireland. 

That  was  a month  of  quivering  moment  to  Ireland.  On 
the  morning  of  the  16th  of  April  the  Protestant  Volunteers 
had  poured  into  Dublin  from  all  the  provinces.  They  were 
marching  through  the  city,  along  the  quays,  with  their 
Irish  banners  flying,  and  bands  playing.  Cavalry  and 
artillery  paraded  on  the  squares.  The  batteries  of  artillery 
were  drawn  up  before  the  Parliament  House ; and  every 
gun  had  a placard  on  its  mouth  with  the  words,  “ Independ- 
ence— or  this  ! ’ ’ 

On  that  day,  when  the  Parliament  opened  and  the 
King’s  message  was  read  by  Hely  Hutchinson,  Henry  Grat- 
tan rose  in  his  place,  and  all  Ireland  hung  upon  his  words. 
He  moved  the  “ Declaration  of  Ireland’s  Bight,”  declaring 
that  no  foreign  power  on  earth  should  legislate  for  Ireland  ; 
that  there  should  be  no  foreign  law,  no  foreign  judicative, 
no  legislative  council,  no  foreign  commissioners.  The  vote 
was  taken,  the  declaration  was  carried  ; Ireland  was  a free 
nation,  voluntarily  disunited  from  federation  with  Great 
Britain,  for  she  could  not  fight.  England  was  forced  to 
consent.  She  recognized  Ireland’s  national  freedom.  But 
she  held  in  reserve  a poisoned  arrow,  to  be  cast  twenty 
years  later. 

This  was  the  work  of  Henry  Grattan.  He  had  secured 
for  Ireland  a position  in  relation  to  the  British  Empire  that 
would  have  developed  all  her  powers  had  it  continued. 
Her  Parliament  was  free  ; but  unfortunately  it  did  not  rep- 
resent the  whole  people,  but  only  the  Protestants  of  Ireland. 
Before  an  act  of  enfranchisement  could  be  passed,  England 
began  a system  of  enormous  bribery,  which  prevented  the 
enfranchisement  of  the  Catholics.  For  the  eighteen  years 


784 


JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 


during  which  the  Irish  Parliament  lasted,  the  entire  Cath- 
olic population,  that  is  five  out  of  every  six  men,  were  dis- 
franchised ; and  no  Catholic  member  sat  on  its  benches 
when  it  voted  away  the  national  life  of  the  country.  And 
yet  so  precious  a boon  is  Home  Government,  even  so  im- 
paired, that  this  period  of  Ireland’s  history  was  one  of  un- 
exampled progress  and  prosperity. 

All  men,  of  all  creeds,  were  proud  of  the  brilliant  men 
who  then  made  the  Irish  Parliament  famous  throughout  the 
world. 

Lord  Plunkett,  speaking  in  1799,  described  Ireland 
thus:  “A  little  island,  with  a population  of  four  or  five 
millions  of  people,  hardy,  gallant,  and  enthusiastic ; her 
revenues,  her  trade,  and  manufactures  thriving  beyond  the 
hope  or  example  of  any  other  country  of  her  extent  ; 
within  these  few  years  advancing  with  a rapidity  astonish 
ing  even  to  herself.” 

Lord  Clare,  in  1798,  said,  that  “ no  nation  had  advanced 
in  cultivation,  in  agriculture,  in  manufactures  with  the 
same  rapidity  in  the  same  period,  as  Ireland  from  1782  to 
1798.” 

Now  comes  the  question  : Why  did  this  progress  stop  ? 
Why  did  Ireland’s  prosperity  cease  ? Were  the  Irish  peo- 
ple unworthy  of  their  opportunity — incapable  of  steering 
their  rich  and  favored  little  country  on  the  high  seas  of 
freedom  ? Why  is  it  that  Ireland  of  all  European  nations, 
she  who  was  placed  best  of  all,  set  down  in  the  mid-stream 
of  the  world’s  commerce,  should  alone  fall  to  the  rear  in 
the  universal  progression?  Why  is  it,  after  eiglity-four 
years  of  union  with  England,  that  we  find  Ireland  poorer 
than  all  other  lands  and  the  most  restless  and  unhappy 
country  in  the  world  ? 

Ireland  dare  not  trust  herself  to  answer — she  turns  to 
England.  And  well  for  the  honor  of  humanity,  the  answer 
has  come  from  a few  great  and  good  Englishmen.  Sydney 
Smith,  in  1808,  looking  back  only  a few  years,  said  : “It 
will  require  centuries  to  efface  the  impression  of  England's 
recent  policy  in  Ireland  ; a policy  that  reflects  indelible  dis- 


HIS  LIFE,  POEMS  AND  SPEECHES. 


785 


grace  on  the  English  character,  and  explains  but  too  clearly 
the  cause  of  the  hatred  of  Irishmen. 

England  was  jealous  or  fearful  of  Ireland’s  rapid  ad- 
vance, and  she  deliberately  resolved  that  it  must  stop. 
There  was  no  way  to  destroy  it  while  the  country  was  free. 
So  she  set  about  the  wicked  work  of  buying  up  a majority 
of  the  Irish  Parliament — which  only  represented  one  sixth 
of  the  nation — to  vote  away  the  independence  of  Ireland  by 
a union  with  England. 

In  describing  what  follows,  I use  the  words  of  a great 
and  honest  Englishman,  Win.  Howitt.  He  says  : 

The  Parliament  of  Ireland  must  be  put  down.  And  how  was  this 
done  ? And  how  was  the  Union  planned  and  effected  ? 

In  1799  the  proposal  of  the  Union  was  rejected  by  an  overwhelming 
majority.  In  1800  it  was  carried  by  a majority  of  ninety.  But  what 
were  the  means  employed  by  the  English  Government  to  produce  the 
change  ? It  is  now  proven  that  not  only  had  the  great  Irish  rebellion  of 
’98  been  fomented  by  the  English  Government,  preparatory  to  their  plan 
of  urging  a union,  but  the  parliamentary  papers,  published  since  then, 
disclose  the  astounding  fact  that  £1,275,000  were  paid  in  the  purchase  of 
boroughs,  and  that  more  than  £1,000,000  had  been  expended  in  mere 
bribes.  Bribery  was  unconcealed.  The  terms  of  the  purchase  were 
quite  familiar.  The  price  of  a single  member’s  vote  for  die  Union  was 
£8000  in  money,  or  the  appointment  to  an  office  with  £2000  a year,  if 
the  parties  did  not  choose  to  take  ready  money.  Some  got  both  for 
their  votes  ; and  no  less  than  twenty  peerages,  ten  bishoprics,  one  chief- 
justiceship,  and  six  puisne  judgeships  were  given  as  the  price  of  votes 
for  the  Union.  Add  to  this  the  officers  who  were  appointed  to  the  reve- 
nue, the  colonels  appointed  to  the  army,  the  commanders  and  captains 
appointed  to  vessels  in  the  navy  in  recompense  for  Union  votes.  The 
peerage  was  sold  ; the  catiffs  of  corruption  were  everywhere — in  the 
lobby,  in  the  streets,  on  the  steps,  and  at  the  doors  of  every  parliament- 
ary leader,  offering  titles  to  some,  offices  to  others,  corruption  to  all. 

The  names  and  prices  of  all  the  purchased  members  of  the  Irish 
Parliament  were  preserved  in  the  Irish  Red  and  Black  lists.  Some  of 
those  who  would  not  take  money  for  their  votes  consented  to  sell  their 
seats.  These  seats  they  sold  were  filled  with  the  tools  of  Government, 
and  the  consequence  was  a majority. 

Henry  Grattan  lived  to  see  the  rise  and  fall  of  his  coun- 
try. “I  sat  by  its  cradle  : I followed  its  hearse,”  he  said. 
Addressing  the  English  Parliament,  and  referring  to  the 


786  JOHN  BOYLE  O’REILLY. 

men  who  had  sold  their  votes,  he  said  : “ You  have  swept 
away  our  Constitution,  you  have  destroyed  our  Parlia- 
ment— but  we  will  have  our  revenge.  We  will  send  into 
the  ranks  of  your  Parliament  a hundred  of  the  greatest 
scoundrels  of  the  kingdom.’ ’ The  last  words  Grattan 

spoke  were  these:  “ I am  resigned.  I am  surrounded  by 
my  family.  I have  served  my  country — and  I am  not 
afraid  of  the  Devil ! ” 


THE  END. 


INDEX 


Allen,  Col.  John,  4,  149 
“America,”  Army  of  the  Potomac, 
Poem,  214 

Amnesty  Debate,  359 

Debate  on  O’Reilly’s  Case,  249 

Diplomatic  Correspondence,  247 

Anderson,  Rev.  J.  A.,  Letter  to,  246 

Angelus,  The,  383 

Anthony,  Capt.,  160-173 

Arbor  Hill  Prison,  18 

Arrest,  18 

Athletics,  369 

Canoeing  Experiences,  233,  314 

His  Devotion  to,  200 

Pugilism,  225 

Punishing  a Slanderer,  202 

“Athletics  and  Manly  Sport”  Pub- 
lished, 314 

“ At  Last,”  North  American  Review 
Article,  272 

Attucks  Monument,  305 
— — Poem,  306 

Australia  Convict  Settlement,  69-75 
Authors’  Reading,  312,  333 

Baker,  Valentine,  18 
Bayard,  Secretary  of  State,  260 
Beacon  Club  Address,  280 
Bensell,  James  Berry,  Poem  to 
O’Reilly,  223 

“ Blow  from  a Slipper,”  227 
“ Bone,  and  Sinew,  and  Brain,”  146 
Boston,  Arrival  at,  103 

City  Memorial  Meeting,  366 

Fire,  134 

Bowles,  Samuel,  181 
Bowman,  Martin,  82,  86 
“ Boyle’s  Log,”  293 
Boyne  River,  3 
Bread  Riot  in  London,  278 
Breslin,  John,  18,  157,  172,  328 
Brownson,  Dr.,  Controversy  with,  147 
Burial,  361 

Bursley,  John,  Mate  of  the  Sapphire, 
99 

Bush,  The  Australian,  70 
Bust,  by  John  Donoghue,  207 
Butt,  Isaac,  181 


Butler,  Gen.  Benjamin  F.,  367 
Byrne,  Rev.  William,  367 

Cable,  George  W.,  Letter,  237 
“ Canoes  and  Boats,”  351 
Canoeing  Trips,  233,  293,  315 
Capen,  President  E.  H.,  368 
Carpenter,  Rev.  Henry  B.,  Died,  351 
Catalapa,  Cruise  of  the,  156 
Catholicity  in  Creed  and  Action,  376 
Catholic  Union  of  Boston,  144 

T.  A.  Union  Speech,  321 

Church  in  America,  Centenary 

of,  337 

Church,  O’Reilly’s  Place  in,  338 

Congress,  338-349 

Cashman,  D.  B.,  67 
Cavanagh,  Michael,  379 
Chamberlain,  Joseph,  323 

Betrays  Gladstone,  278 

Chambers,  Corp.  Thos.,  48,  51,  55,  56, 
62,  64, 158,  177,  183,  328 
Character,  375 
Charity,  386 
Chatham  Prison,  55 
Child’s  Tribute  to  John  Boyle 
O’Reilly,  389 
“ City  Streets,”  224 
Cleveland,  President,  323,  357 
Coercion  Bill  Condemned,  219,  276 
Collier,  Rev.  H.  Price,  364 
Collins,  P.  A.,  103,  369 
Colored  Americans,  341 
Colored  Men’s  Meeting,  326 
Conaty,  Rev.  Thomas  J. , 362 
Condon,  O’Meagher,  125,  158 
Cribb  Club  Founded,  200 
“ Crispus  Attucks,”  Poem,  325 
Cromwell  Massacre  at  Drogheda,  1, 
273 

“ Cry  of  the  Dreamer,”  291 

Dartmoor  Prison,  55,  64,  67 
Dartmoor  Massacre,  55 
Dartmouth  College,  Poem,  205 
Dates,  Memory  for,  294 
Davitt,  Michael,  49,  50,  51,  61,  158 
Death,  353-356. 


787 


788 


INDEX. 


Decoration  Day  Speech,  291 
Demagogues,  Denunciation  of,  127 
Devoy,  John,  15,  16,  17,  157 
Dismal  Swamp  Cruise,  315-319 
Disraeli,  Comments  on  his  Career,  204 
“ Doctor  of  Laws,”  from  Notre  Dame 
University,  203 
Donalioe,  Patrick,  154 

Dowth  Castle,  3,  362 
Drogheda  Argus,  5 
Drogheda  Massacre,  1 
“ Dynamite  Policy,”  230,  257 

Editorials,  His  Last,  352 
Editorial  Work,  141 
Emmet  Centenary  Poem,  184 
“Ensign  Epps,  the  Color  Bearer,” 
264 

“ Erin,”  St.  Patrick’s  Day  Poem,  213 
Escape  “ Attempted,”  55,  63 

from  the  Settlement,  75-83 

Esmonde,  Sir  T.  H.  G. , 327 
“Exile  of  the  Gael,”  302 

Faneuil  Hall,  Speech  at  Irish  Meeting, 
238,  262 

Fenian  Civilian  Prisoners  Liberated, 
122 

Invasion  of  Canada,  107-115 

Movement,  8 

Pall-bearers,  359 

Reception,  101,  102 

Five-dollar  Fund,  290  . 

Ford,  Patrick,  of  Irish  World,  326 
Foster,  Vere,  20 
“ Fredericksburg,”  153 
From  the  Heights,  337 
Fulton,  Rev.  Robert,  Eulogy,  360 
Funeral  Services,  359 

Gazelle,  Whaling  Bark,  82 
Gibbons,  Cardinal,  356 
Gifford,  Capt.,  82,  90,  122,  144,  256 
Grand  Army  of  the  Republic,  353, 
362 

Grant,  General,  Anecdote  of,  214 
Gray,  Sir  John,  147 
Grave  at  Holyliood,  373 

“Hanged,  Drawn  and  Quartered,” 
269 

Harrison,  President,  371 
Harson,  M.  J.,  Letter  to,  338 
Hassett,  Thomas,  a Fenian  Soldier, 
123 

Hathaway,  Capt.,  82-99, 122,  157, 170, 
254 

Harvey  Duff,  14 


Healey,  Bishop,  372 
Hebrews  Defended,  342 
“Here  and  Hereafter,”  Russell  Sul 
livan’s  Poem,  201 

Hewitt,  Mayor,  on  the  Irish  Flag,  313 
Higginson,  Col.  T.  W.,  367 
Hoar,  Senator,  357 
Holmes,  Oliver  Wendell,  357 

O.  W.,  Letter  from,  214 

Holyhood  Cemetery,  373 
Home  Life,  381 

Rule  Movement,  128,  143,  290 

Hougoumont,  Convict  Ship,  67,  68 
House  at  Hull,  197 
Hull  Life-savers,  330-332 
Hurd,  Charles  E.,  115,  132 
Hussars  (Service  in  the  Prince  of 
Wales  Own),  9,  10,  11,  12,  13 
Hussey,  Capt.,  89 

“ In  Bohemia  ” Published,  265 
Informer,  Treatment  by  O’Reilly,  47 
Ireland,  Last  Sight  of,  99 
“ Ireland’s  Opportunity,”  207 
Irish  Delegates,  O’Reilly’s  Speech  at 
Reception,  327 
Flag,  335 

Industries  and  Commerce,  280- 

287 

National  League  Convention,  231 

National  Members  on  his  Death, 

358 

People  Suppressed,  17 

Protestant  Patriots,  147 

Irishman,  O’Reilly’s  Letter  to,  255 
“ Is  it  too  Late  ? ” 258 

“ Jacqueminots,”  Translated  to  Span- 
ish, 319 

Jordan,  Capt.,  of  the  Ship  Bombay , 99 
Joyce,  Dr.  R.  D.,  103,  132 

Kearney,  Dennis,  184 
Kelly,  John  Edward.  67,  235.  266 
“ Kindness  is  the  Word,”  337,  353, 
374.  379 

“ King’s  Men,”  56-61,  241 

La  Grippe,  Epidemic,  339 
Latlirop,  George  Parsons,  358 
Lavigerie,  Cardinal,  340 
Lavin,  Michael,  Fenian  Soldier,  63 
Lecture,  First  in  America,  102 
Lecture  Tour  in  the  West,  344-346 
Lecture,  His  Last  in  Boston,  343 
Liberty  Enlightening  the  World,  800 
Literary  Growth,  384 

Life’s  Offer,  295 

Methods,  387 


INDEX. 


789 


Log-book  of  Capt.  Hathaway,  91 
Longfellow’s  Death,  213 
Lowell,  James  Russell,  260 
Lucas,  Frederick,  384 

Maguires,  76-82 
Marriage,  132 
Martin,  John,  147 

McCabe.  Rev.  Patrick,  of  Bunbury, 
75,  255,  344 

McCarthy,  Justin,  on  O’Reilly’s  Ath- 
letic Side,  200 

O’Reilly's  Speech  of  Welcome, 

296 

Sargeant  Charles,  48,  56,  62,  64, 

158 

McMahon,  Rev.  J.  W.,  357 
McMaster,  J.  A.,  on  “ Moondyne,” 
186 

Memorial  Services,  362,  371,  373 
Miles  the  Slasher,  2 
Millbank  Prison,  49-55 
Mitchell,  John,  50,  147 
Modoc  Massacre,  142 
Month’s  Mind,  371 
Monument  Fund,  370 
“ Moondyne,”  68,  185,  188 
Moore  Centenary,  193 
Morgan,  The  Colored  Graduate,  348 
Moseley,  E.  A.,  Letters,  etc.,  339,  378, 
380,  387 

Moseley,  Edward  A.,  314 
Mountjoy  Prison,  47 
Murphy,  Capt.  James,  20 

Miss  Mary,  132 

Rev.  P.  B.,  115 

Naturalization,  100 
Nature.  Love  of,  380 
Negroes  Championed,  142,  288 

Question,  341,  348 

Netterville  Institution,  3 
“ No  Irish  need  apply,”  232 
Number  ‘"  406,”  190 
“ 9843,”  83 

O’Brien,  William,  O Reilly’s  Speech 
of  Reception,  303 
O’Connell  Centenary,  152 
O’Connor,  Arthur,  327 
O’Kane,  John,  180 

Daniel  P.,  180 

“ Old  School  Clock,”  19,  20,  256 
O’Mahony,  Col.  John,  Letter  to  him, 
105 

Death,  174 

O’Neill,  Gen.  John;  108,  115 
Orange  Parade,  116-120, 121,  140 
Riot  Anniversary,  231 


O’Reilly,  Eliza  Boyle,  4,  205 

of  Cavan,  2 

William,  5 

William  David,  3,  4,  130 

Papyrus  Club,  343,  361 

“ Alexander  Young’s  Feast,” 

234 

Elected  President,  191 

Farewell  Letter,  196 

Founded,  132-136 

Ladies’  Night  Speech,  192 

“ Loving  Cup,”  191 

“President’s  Night,”  221 

“ The  Fierce  Light,”  241 

Parnell,  Charles  Stewart,  198 

Imprisoned,  207 

Fanny,  220 

Parole  not  Broken,  254 
Patriotism,  Irish  and  American,  38# 
Pentonville  Prison,  48 
Personal  Appearance,  104,  105 
Philadelphia,  Arrival  at,  100 
Philistine’s  Views, 334 
Phillips,  Wendell,  142,  153 

On  Phoenix  Park  Tragedy,  217 

Friendship  for  O’Reilly,  228 

His  Death  ; O’Reilly’s  Poem,  236 

Phoenix  Park  Tragedy,  215,  224 

O’Reilly’s  Speech,  216 

“ Pickett  of  Dragoons,”  11 
Pilgrim  Fathers’  Poem,  335 
Pilot  Burned  Out,  135 

First  Work  on,  106 

Part  Purchase  by  O’Reilly,  155 

A Democratic  Paper,  347 

Poems,  Australian  and  Others,  125 
Poem,  His  First,  384 
Poems  in  Memoriam,  364,  385,  389 
Poets  Generously  Encouraged,  206, 
223,  310 

Portland  Prison,  64 

Portrait  by  Edgar  Parker,  207 

Portsmouth  Prison,  55 

Press  Club,  Elected  President,  191 

Presidential  Address,  194 

Preston  Guardian,  6 

Letter  to  his  Aunt  in,  105,  133 

Life  and  Reminiscences  of,  7,  8 

Prison  Legacy,  387 

Letters,  329,  376 

Life,  48 

Poems,  48 

Sketch,  52,  56 

Public  Life,  Editorial,  “ Whipped,” 
203 

Declines  Office,  231 

Supports  Cleveland,  239 

His  Democratic  Principles,  301 


790 


INDEX. 


Public  Life,  Farewell  to  Politics,  333 

• His  Democracy  Defined,  348 

Punishment  for  Breach  of  Rules,  71 

“ Released,”  182 
“ Ride  of  Collins  Graves,”  146 
Riel,  Louis,  his  Execution,  264 
Riley,  James  Whitcomb,  Poem  on 
O’Reilly’s  “ In  Bohemia,”  300 
Roderique  Island,  Adventure  at,  86 
Rossa,  O’Donovan,  17,  231,  258 
Russell,  Lord  Odo,  46 

Sackville  West,  English  Minister’s 
Mistake,  324 
Sapphire , Bark,  89 

Seiders,  Capt.,  Takes  O’Reilly  Pas- 
senger, 89. 

Sentence,  47 

Sepoys  Blown  from  the  Cannon’s 
Mouth,  262 

Slattery,  Rev.  J.  R.,  326 
Solitary  System  at  Millbank,  49 
“ Songs,  Legends,  and  Ballads,”  145 
“ Songs  of  the  Southern  Seas,”  144 
Speech,  “ For  the  Press,”  130 

on  the  Catalpa  Rescue,  170 

Stage  Irishmen,  129 
Staniford  Street  Lodgings,  132 
Stanley,  Henry  M.,  136 
St.  Botolph  Club  Founded,  199 
“Statues  in  the  Block”  Published, 
205 

Stephens,  James,  Escape,  18 
Stoddard,  Charles  Warren,  Letter  to, 
291 


Strathnairn,  Lord,  the  Sepoy  Exe- 
cutioner, 262 

Sullivan,  T.  Russell,  Poem,  201 

Talbot,  Informer,  14,  15 
“ Taverner,”  Anecdote,  213 

Estimate  of  O’Reilly,  299 

Taylor,  Col.  C.  H.,  367 
Teeling,  Rev.  Arthur  J.,  362 
Traitor,  Punishment  of  a,  168 
Trial,  22-47 

Tribune , New  York,  Offer  of  Em- 
ployment, 126 

Underwood,  Francis  H.,  Farewell 
Poem  to,  265 

“ Useless  Ones,”  his  Last  Poem,  343 

Victoria’s  Jubilee,  303 

O’Reilly  in  Fanueil  Hall,  306 

Vigilant , Whaling  Bark,  79 
Volunteers,  His  Service  in  Lancashire 
Rifles,  7 

Walker.  Edwin  G.,  369 
Watkinson,  Capt.  James,  6 
Whale,  Perilous  Adventure  with,  84, 
85 

“What  is  Good?”  337 
Whittier,  John  G.,  Letter  from,  214, 
237 

“ Wild  Goose,”  67 
Woman’s  Rights,  Editorial,  227 
Woodbury,  Hon.  C.  L.,  366 

Young,  Alexander,  75 


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